


Twice Shy

by Ewebie



Series: Guess My Race Is Run [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Contract, Marriage of Convenience, Minor peril, Why won't they actually talk to each other?!, Younger Greg, do not copy to another site, mystrade, off screen family member death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: It was a marriage of convenience. In a time when Greg Lestrade, as the second born son, was more than likely to be parcelled off in an arranged marriage with a perfect stranger, the offer of security and independence wasn’t one he could turn down. Maybe slightly lacking in romance, Mycroft’s proposal was simple and pragmatic. Engagement: short. Marriage: mutually beneficial.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Guess My Race Is Run [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377
Comments: 260
Kudos: 417





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on this prompt:  
>  **Years after their wedding of convenience, Greg Lestrade could admit that he loved Mycroft Holmes. But he didn't expect him to turn up on his doorstep to say that he wanted to stay married to him. Their physical attraction was undeniable, yet he needed more than just a valentine love…**
> 
> Thanks to Paia for beta-ing.  
> Condolences to Moth... no more daily torture sentences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any content warnings for the chapters will be in end notes of the chapter (if people are worried and would like to skip to those)

It was a marriage of convenience. In a time when Greg Lestrade, as the second born son, was more than likely to be parcelled off in an arranged marriage with a perfect stranger, the offer of security and independence wasn’t one he could turn down. Maybe slightly lacking in romance, Mycroft’s proposal was simple and pragmatic. Engagement: short. Marriage: mutually beneficial. Greg would be granted the freedom to continue his career, and to do so in London. 

In return, Mycroft Holmes would too be allowed to continue his own career, unimpeded by the emotional entanglements and frustrating distractions of the horrifying excuse for a partner his parents were eying up in the wings. Greg would be expected to maintain a public visage of a wedded partner, though Mycroft made it clear that he expected no physical reciprocation behind closed doors. More than clear, actually. Greg suspected that Mycroft had little to no interest in physical engagement in the first place, and whether or not sex was on the table, Greg was more than a little thrilled at the idea of being comfortable going forward.

He took the week to think it over. He knew all about deals that seemed too good to be true, and he wasn’t about to tie himself to a relationship that would make him unhappy. And as tempting as the arrangement was, he had reason for his caution. Mainly, the source of his acquaintance with Mycroft in the first place - Sherlock Holmes.

Greg was a good copper. And a decent detective. And he was doing reasonably well for himself ever since he transferred across to Violent Crimes. He’d jumped from Detective Constable to Detective Sergeant in record time and entirely on his own merit. It helped that he’d started going grey a bit young. Salt and pepper looked distinguished and helped convince people he was older than he was, if not a bit more mature. People had always said he had a boyish face. It was nice that he was finally being taken seriously. Seriously enough that when a skinny kid, clearly off his tits, decided to vomit on his shoes, soil his crime scene, and vehemently insist that he knew the ins and outs of the crime, Greg was given a bit of leeway in how he handled it.

He took his leeway and handled it by throwing the kid in the drunk tank to come down. Then he checked out the information that was, more or less, puked out on his person. And before he’d made it back to the station, Sherlock was summarily released to his brother’s care. Through no intention or work on Greg’s part, the record of arrest disappeared into a paperwork void and any reasonable person would be convinced that the event never occurred in the first place. Something that was heavily implied by Sherlock’s brother as he departed with Sherlock in tow - it hadn’t happened, and speaking of it would bring about trouble. It led Greg swiftly to two conclusions. First, that Sherlock Holmes was both incredibly clever and incredibly stupid. Second, that Sherlock’s brother was terrifyingly powerful for someone whose name only brought up a vague profile in the Department of Transportation. 

Greg had been furious. A bit foolish, perhaps, in not reading between the lines, but righteously angry. And with all that youthful indignance, he stormed into Mycroft’s office and demanded justification for the governmental interference. Mycroft had raised a brow, smiled, and suggested that Greg keep his voice down or be removed. He might as well have thrown gasoline on an open flame for how well it worked. The whole ordeal closed with Greg being ‘escorted’ from the building and Sherlock showing up at his door that evening, ranting about his brother’s overbearing nature and ridiculous Security Services pretense. When the dust finally settled, Mycroft had Greg’s mobile number, and Greg had means of contacting him in return, which led to occasional meetings, numerous phone conversations, and the odd cup of coffee when neither could be kept in their respective offices. Sherlock was shortly to return from rehab. And Greg was put up for another promotion. It all happened at a pace that left his head spinning and not the tiniest bit sore from the celebration of it all.

Now, two years on, Greg handled the phone call from his parents nearly as well as Mycroft’s initial meddling. With rather impotent rage and not an insignificant amount of alcohol. Enough alcohol, that when he was finally on his way home from the pub, Mycroft Holmes sent a car to collect him. And he, thankfully, didn’t wind up sleeping it off on a park bench. He instead woke at home, a glass of water and some aspirin on his night stand, and a simple note that read:

_Call Me.  
~M _

He stewed over it for the time it took his stomach to tolerate a fry-up and his head to stop aching. Then he braced himself and rang Mycroft. He’d expected some sort of admonishment; maybe he’d said something untoward. At least he knew he hadn’t phoned or texted Mycroft in a drunken haze. He definitely hadn’t expected the invitation to a hangover-friendly dinner in a quaint and quiet bistro. Nor had he expected the proposal, laid out in fluent, undeniable logic over the post-meal tea. He frowned and blinked over the rim of his mug.

“Sorry. So… You think we,” he gestured between them with a hand, “should get married?”

“Mmn.”

Greg stopped just shy of snorting. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why would you ever want to marry me?” Love matches were incredibly rare for younger siblings. And as far as Greg was concerned, they were a load of nonsense. Daydreams and fancies and completely impractical. But love aside, there were actual reasons to marry and quite good reasons not to. Mycroft may not be the younger sibling, but he must have his pick of any number of viable spouses.

“Ah.” Mycroft folded his hands together on the table as if he’d been expecting that particular question. “Allow me to make clear what I stand to benefit from such an arrangement first. My job, career rather, is incredibly time consuming. It carries both a burden of occasion, as well as confidentiality. Intimacy is… difficult. And romance is quite outside of my remit. The opportunity to meet a compatible life partner has and will continue to remain elusive.”

“You… haven’t been able to meet someone?” Greg would be one to talk. His opportunities and options were narrow enough with the amount of time he spent at work, thinking about work, traveling to and from work...

“Quite.” He sighed and tilted his head. “The added strain of my parents’ current preoccupation with my unwed state and the unending contentiousness of my younger brother makes me an unlikely partner, and heading, quite rapidly, towards an arranged marriage.”

Greg worried his lower lip. He could understand that stress. His parents were a horrible judge of his needs and he’d tried to drown that concern in beer for however much good that’d done him.

“The ability to select a partner would provide the following: a person with whom I’ve established communication, a person acquainted with my career and family who would not be unduly affected by my brother, a person aware of the conditions of attachment and requirements of the partnership prior to commitment.”

Greg swallowed. Hearing it laid out so bluntly was a bit unnerving. “Conditions?”

“In any marriage to which I endeavour, commitment must be publicly flawless. There can be no whisper of discord, no hint of scandal. It cannot, to be blunt, be used as a form of blackmail in any way, shape, or form. It would require joint public appearances, with every modicum of propriety upheld. It would necessitate a shared residence and well kept household. Though behind closed doors, you are not beholden to any physical commitment to myself. That you are also male would preclude children, and I find that a relief.”

“I don’t know that I really want kids either.” Greg nodded slowly. “I don’t… I mean, I have no problem with marrying another man. I just want to put that out there.”

“That is a rather essential component of my proposal.” A smile flirted at the edges of Mycroft’s mouth implying he was already aware of Greg’s flexible orientation. “Now. Those are the benefits which I stand to gain. You can be assured of a number of things as well. First, we would always maintain a residence here in London. You would not be required to relocate or, and I suspect more importantly, relinquish your hard won career with the Met.”

“You… I could keep working?” Greg asked hopefully.

“I would rather insist on it.” He took a prim sip of his tea. “You are not a man who would settle for being kept. The boredom and stagnation would sour your temperament quickly. I enjoy that you pursue justice and that you do so intelligently and efficiently. That you are a younger brother should not limit you.”

Greg blushed, the heavy weight of birth order dropping off his shoulders. His parents had always implied he was stuck between the rock of an ill-suited arrangement of boredom and the hard place of career and spinsterhood.

“So. No relocation. You continue in your career. Residence would be provided, as would an allowance of sorts should you wish. While you have your own income, and one that will remain yours alone, there are expensive, superficial demands for events that I do not expect you to shoulder by yourself.”

“Right.” Greg mulled that over. “So… I’m not kept, but…”

“I am at liberty to spoil you as I deem fit.”

He flushed again. Spoiled. “And if I wanted…”

“I am always open to renegotiation, Gregory.”

He nodded. As much as Mycroft said he would renegotiate, Greg was under no illusion that he would come out on top of an arbitration. Mycroft could talk him into knots on a good day. He wrapped both palms around his mug and took a breath. “Ok. But why me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Me,” he looked up. “There have to be any number of people that would… meet your criteria. I’m just… I’m me. Why me?”

Mycroft deliberated carefully. And the longer he took to pick his words, the more nervous Greg became. “You, Gregory, are incredibly appealing to me for a number of reasons. You are loyal and have demonstrated this over and again. You understand my work to a degree as well as my family. You are passionate and would challenge me in a way that I deeply need. You are already independent and stand to benefit from this arrangement, though perhaps not so much as myself. And finally, though not inconsequentially, you are an attractive man with decent manners with whom I would comfortably share a home.”

Greg opened his mouth to argue, maybe contest a few of Mycroft’s points, but he found himself speechlessly blushing out to the tips of his ears. The word ‘attractive’ stuck at the forefront of his mind. After considering and absolutely discarding any number of things to say, lest he say something absolutely stupid, he finally met Mycroft’s rather earnest gaze and asked, “Can I think about it?”

It seemed to have been the right thing to say. Mycroft’s face softened. “I would rather you do.”

“Right… Ok. I will.”

It was a lot to think about. And it would have been nice to take time off of work, to find a quiet space and properly weigh his options. To think it through, plan for every possible eventuality. And he would have, if not for, well, just about everything else going on around him. Work, for one, became exceedingly, if not aggressively busy. And directly on the heels of a flurry of small but rather dire cases, came one big, horrible case. And that brought with it Sherlock Holmes. And while Sherlock was likely to have some small, positive input into the case, he certainly had nothing kind to add to his brother’s proposal.

“Sherlock,” Greg threatened, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If you’ve nothing helpful to add, just fuck off, eh?”

“I’m disappointed in you, Lestrade.”

Greg sighed and palmed his forehead, squinting at the tenuous stacks of paper and photos scattered across his desk. “Get in line.”

“No,” Sherlock scoffed. “Not with this. With…” The sentence was finished with a vague hand wave.

He groaned. “I can’t actually read your mind on a good day.” He received a snort in response. “Mate, I’ve not slept in two days. What, exactly, do you have a problem with now?”

“My brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, my brother,” Sherlock snapped. “And you.” When Greg didn’t answer, Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair and started pacing. “Together.”

“We’re not together,” Greg said dismissively, pulling a photograph from the mess.

“No, but you’re thinking about it. It’s a terrible idea.”

He didn’t bother asking how Sherlock knew. Even if there were a tangible way of explaining it, Sherlock wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. All of that was beside the fact that this investigation was occupying what little brain power he had left this late in the day. “Why?” He twisted the photo, turning it in hopes of getting a different perspective from the two dimensional image.

“He doesn’t care about people.”

“He cares about you.”

“I’m not the one considering marrying him.”

“No. You’re not.”

Sherlock scowled and leaned over the desk. “He’s older than you. He’s incapable of human concern. His peculiarities will grate against your normalcy. He is necessarily wedded to his work and will leave you neglected and isolated like a hard done mistress. His interest will be overbearing and restrictive.”

“Sherlock, it’s none of your business.” Greg dropped the picture and picked up another, leaning back in his chair.

Sherlock snatched the picture from his hand. “Sadly, you need people and care in your life for fulfillment. You will be unhappy. And you will have only yourself to blame.” He slapped the photo flat on the desk. “This. Here.” He pointed. “There’s your answer. And you can consider yourself warned.” Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.

Greg stared after him. The transition in the conversation was jarring and it took an extra moment for his brain to abandon the idea that Sherlock might actually care about his well-being and focus on the photo. The corner of the flat with the simple table and… Son of a bitch…

“DONOVAN!” he bellowed.

“Boss?”

“We gotta go!”

Nearly seven days after he’d passed out drunkenly in his bed and had woken to the most fascinating proposal of his life, Greg Lestrade collapsed awkwardly on his couch and pressed an icepack to his eye. If he never had to tackle a suspect on the run again, it would be too soon. As it stood, resisting arrest would have to be added to the docket, maybe even along with assaulting an officer. He glanced down and noticed the tear in the knee of his trousers. Christ, he’d need a new suit. At least he didn’t seem to have bled on his shirt.

His mobile rang and he groaned, shifting uncomfortably to fish it out of his pocket. “Lestrade.” Even his voice sounded tired and sore.

“Gregory?”

He grunted and pushed upright. “Mycroft. Shit, sorry. I… I meant to call sooner.” He had meant to call. He’d meant to give the whole situation the appropriate amount of thought much sooner. But then one thing had led to another...

“Quite alright. I am aware that you have been otherwise engaged. Sherlock has complained incessantly.”

“Got to you too, did he?”

Mycroft hummed. “Forgive the intrusion. Are you properly minding your injuries?”

Greg snorted. “I’ve an icepack on my eye. Probably will have a bit of a shiner. But I’ve seen worse.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ve seen worse. Tell me, are your ribs broken or simply bruised?”

“I don’t want to know how you know about that.” He twisted slightly to his side, feeling the stretch and twinge across his ribcage. Bruised. More than one. But most likely not broken. He was going to be sore all over tomorrow.

“And have you bothered to clean the abrasion on your knee?”

He laughed and instantly regretted it. “No.”

“I hope I am not overstepping by offering a small piece of advice.”

“You’re not going to tell me that I can’t have a beer, are you?”

“No, Gregory. You should have a beer. Though, perhaps just the one.”

He grumbled good-naturedly. “Alright, fine.”

“Take a shower. Take something for the pain. Dress the bleeding wounds. Have a beer. Sleep.”

It was essentially the same advice he’d give to any of his team. Though, he might be a bit more crass than Mycroft had been. It was… Nice to have someone looking out for him. “You make very reasonable points there, Holmes.”

“I should hope so.” He paused. “And while I’m more than happy to continue dispensing advice, I did call with another purpose in mind.”

“Oh?” He knew there had to be a reason. Mycroft Holmes didn’t deign to call without good reason.

“I thought I might extend an invitation to dinner tomorrow. At mine.” It was rare for Mycroft to hesitate. “I recognise the depth of your involvement with work this past week, and I wouldn’t flatter myself to think that my desire for conversation would outweigh your need for rest and thought…”

“Dinner and a talk, eh?” It wasn’t as if Greg hadn’t expected it. They’d left the conversation open ended, but with the ball very much in Greg’s court. He wasn’t exactly reckless. He’d outgrown most of his impulsive, brash inclinations. Some through maturity, others through experience. And still, the three ignored voicemails and near dozen emails from his parents invoked just the right juvenile caprice that he was ready to say sod it all and jump in with both feet - eyes open or closed seemed pretty irrelevant.

“Quite.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

Mycroft paused again. Surprised or otherwise, Greg found it endearing. “If you find you are not up for it tomorrow, I will understand.”

“It’s just a dust up, Mycroft. I’ll be fine.”

“Nevertheless.”

“So when tomorrow?”

“Shall we say seven?”

“Sure.” He stretched and felt the pull of bruising and a sharp twinge from his back. “Think you’re right about that shower.”

“I am keeping you.”

“You’re not,” he huffed.

“Rest well.”

“Ta.”

“À demain.”

Greg smiled. “Later gator.” He hung up to the most amazing sound of Mycroft chuckling.

Greg woke the next morning feeling as though he’d been dragged backwards up a few flights of stairs. He was glad he’d showered; not feeling filthy was the only high point of being awake. He was also glad he’d taken some painkillers, and was going to have to repeat that sooner rather than later. And he was even more than glad he’d only had the one beer. As it stood, he was forced to take another warm shower in hopes of loosening some of the tight muscles in his back and shoulders, then he stretched everything very, very carefully. He’d been right about the shiner.

At work, there were volumes of forms and paperwork to complete, so it looked likely he’d be chained to his desk. He had to keep refilling his coffee as an excuse to move, and it only partially kept his back from tightening into complex knots. By the time he’d reached the end of the day, he was over-caffeinated, under-fed, and definitely had a headache. The thought of sitting in his car to drive home made his neck ache in anticipation. Maybe he’d just take a taxi. The tube was right out. With a final shuffle of the remaining to-do pile, he slipped out of his office and down through the main entrance. He was still weighing the benefits of a taxi when a black car pulled up next to him.

He did a double take. First wondering if the car was for him. Then wondering what Sherlock could have possibly done in the past twenty-four hours, or if he’d done something to warrant a face-to-face dressing down with Mycroft. And oh… Dinner. Shit. He’d completely forgotten about dinner. His phone pinged in his hand and he glanced at it quickly.

_I thought perhaps wine with dinner. Should you prefer not to drive.  
~M _

It was a quick drive to Mycroft’s, made more comfortable by the perfectly heated interior and agreeable leather seats. And then Mycroft’s home was… overwhelming. Ordinary enough looking from the outside, but impeccable on the inside. And that was just of the space Greg saw. Foyer, home office, sitting room, dining room, kitchen… Holy hell, he’d known the Holmeses had money, but this was something else.

“Shall we eat here in the kitchen?”

Greg lifted his eyes from where he’d been reading the wine label. “Sure. If you want.”

“The dining room is overly formal. And while it’s needed for events, I… I prefer the kitchen.”

Unexpected, but nice. Greg nodded. “Ok, yeah. What is that? It smells fantastic.”

“There is an Italian restaurant not far from here. They don’t routinely do take away, but I find I can rarely sit in.” Mycroft paused in plating the food. “I never checked, you do like Italian food?”

Greg laughed. “Who doesn’t?”

Mycroft hummed a non-answer. “How are you feeling today? Quite the rakish black eye.”

“Bit sore, to be honest.” He tried to hide the unnecessary blush behind a sip of wine. “Not the eye, that’s fine. Ribs are… ok. But my suit ended up in the bin.”

“I find myself quite relieved you weren’t wearing a tie.” The expression Mycroft wore suggested that he thought Greg should actually wear ties, the habit of foregoing one just happened to be beneficial this once. “I don’t know about you, but I neglected lunch. Shall we eat first?”

Eating first was a good idea. It settled Greg’s stomach and nerves equally. And it rid him of the jitteriness from earlier in the day. The split bottle of wine was also a good idea. And the indulgent ice cream that followed: an even better idea. Greg did his best not to lick the bowl and cleared the dishes instead. And so, two hours after first stepping foot in Mycroft’s home, Greg found himself sitting on a comfortable couch, in a surprisingly cosy ‘entertainment room,’ finishing the last of the wine.

He interrupted the peaceable quiet with the question that had been hanging over him for the past week. “You wanted to talk?”

“If you feel ready.”

“I feel spoiled,” he said absently. Then groaned and set the wine down, stopping himself just shy of rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. That’s not a bad thing. Just…”

Mycroft made an encouraging sound.

“Just. I can’t actually imagine coming home to that on a regular basis.”

“I assure you, this is an indulgence. I rarely cook. I often work late. And I can hardly commit to such a pleasant evening routinely.” Mycroft smiled. “However, I find myself inclined to indulge you.”

Greg felt his face flame. “Yeah?”

“Mmn.”

It was such a small, simple assurance. “You know, my parents have been on me about an arrangement.”

“As have mine.”

“I think…” He worried his lower lip. “I don’t want you to think that I’m saying yes just because they have awful taste.” They did have awful taste. And Mycroft would be head and shoulders above anyone they could come up with, let alone arrange a marriage with.

Mycroft chuckled. “Of course not. No more than I am.”

Greg’s shoulders relaxed incrementally. “I think this could work,” he said finally. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“You may come to find that I have the odd one, from time to time.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. Leave it to Mycroft to have the commentary on his decision making the take away point. “Posh twat.”

“Hooligan,” Mycroft replied easily. “You think it’s a good idea, but you have reservations.”

“Yes and no.” He took a minute to collect his thoughts. Questions. He had more questions than actual reservations. “This… Arrangement. You and me. Is it… Formal?”

Mycroft’s expression sobered. “It will be.”

“As in?”

“Contract. An actual physical, tangible contract.”

Greg blew out a breath. “Right.” Black and white. Ink on paper. Bit… binding. “And… You said,” he tried to recall the exact wording. “You said that we wouldn’t have a, a physical…”

“Ah.” Mycroft tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I do not believe it would be in either of our best interests to have requirements of an intimate, sexual nature be contractually obligated.” Greg swallowed audibly and Mycroft raised a brow. “As I mentioned before, I feel rather that I am the one getting the better bargain, so to speak. Should it be in writing that as a result of this marriage, you are required to…perform? That would be tawdry at best and prostitutional at worst. I have no desire to create such an avenue of discord.”

Greg nodded slowly, trying to process that. It made sense. Putting obligatory sex in a marriage contract would never turn out well. For anyone. Hell, it wasn’t even agreed that they were even interested in that. “Ok. Yeah. And if, if later something in the contract no longer suited us?”

“I am open to renegotiation.”

“You’d talk circles around me.”

Mycroft grinned. “Quite possibly. But you need only ask to speak with me. We can discuss terms in isolation to whatever events have raised the issue itself.”

“Sounds fair.” He wet his lips nervously. It sounded more than fair. It sounded too good to be true. “And the actual contract? Do you need me to sign it now?”

Mycroft studied him for a moment. “Do you have a lawyer, Gregory?”

“I work with a few of them at the Met,” he snorted. Why on Earth would he have a lawyer? “But not…not a personal lawyer.”

“I would like you to meet with one. Go over the contract in detail. Raina excels at contract law, I can give you her number. She is quite impartial.”

“You think I need a lawyer?”

“I am not a selfless man,” Mycroft admitted. “I believe this contract is fair, but I’m rather biased. I would feel better knowing that someone is looking out for your interests in the matter, from a legal standpoint.”

“I… Right…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft set a hand gently on his knee- his uninjured knee. “I would very much like this to work. I would marry you tomorrow. If I had any reservations about you as a person, I would never have come to you with this proposal in the first place. I simply do not trust myself with your best interests as I would gladly take anything and everything you put on offer.”

He felt himself blush again. “Oh.” Mycroft gave his knee a gentle squeeze and Greg smiled. “So, paperwork and all aside, what were you thinking?”

“About?”

“The wedding.”

Mycroft grinned. “Small. Elegant. And next month.”

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor injuries due to off screen altercations


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any content warnings for the chapters will be in end notes of the chapter (if people are worried and would like to skip to those)

Greg was pleasantly surprised by how smoothly the wedding occurred. Though, he was certain that Mycroft had borne the brunt of coordinating, planning, and probably paying. They had agreed to split the cost, but it didn’t escape Greg’s notice that they never agreed to divide it evenly. 

Greg’s parents had been a hard sell. They were less than chuffed at the short notice, and even more displeased with Greg’s choice. It hadn’t mattered that he’d known Mycroft for years or that he was well established and able to provide for Greg, even though he wouldn’t need be. More than anything, they seemed put off by the fact that Greg had any choice in the matter. Thankfully, Mycroft was beyond charming when he tried. The joint charm offensive of Mycroft and his parents managed to stifle their concerns enough to bless the union in their own way.

Mycroft’s family had been pleased, mostly. His parents had reservations that were quelled by meeting Greg and beaten out of existence by the logic of their marriage. With the exception of Sherlock, who spent the entire day pouting his demonstrable disappointment in Lestrade, the Holmes family was welcoming and celebratory. Greg tried not to take Sherlock’s objection to heart. Sherlock, deep down, wanted what was best for him - and probably Mycroft. However misdirected his energies were.

When all was said and done, they’d opted to put off their ‘honeymoon’ for the sake of all the work that was put off in favor of the wedding. And after a lovely day, at the end of a long month, Greg found himself sitting in the middle of a long table, Mycroft’s hand resting on top of his, wondering how, in all their sodding planning, the idea of a dance had never come up. 

He swallowed, a confused look creeping across his face. “Bloody hell, really?”

Mycroft tilted his head in acknowledgement of the demand, the propriety of the music, and the implication of the day. “I suppose we rather neglected this obligation during planning.” He turned his palm up. “Shall we?”

“Myc, I can’t… How are we supposed to… to dance?”

His hand folded around Greg’s, gently tugging him to his feet. “Obviously, you shall have to lead.”

Greg grinned. It was a concession, designed to make him more comfortable. “You’re just saying that.”

Mycroft’s wry smile was unmistakable. “If you would prefer that I lead, I’m more than happy.”

“Shut up,” he murmured back, finding them in the middle of the empty dance floor. “I just can’t believe you forgot about this bit.” He held his arms open. “Try to limit your expectations, yeah?”

Mycroft stepped neatly into Greg’s personal space, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “I have every faith in you.” They were very simple steps. Even, slow, somewhat familiar. Nothing fancy. But Mycroft made it look graceful. “See. Excellent.” The hand on his shoulder slipped up the back of his neck.

He blushed. “This is like you forgetting there was a kiss at the ceremony.”

“I did not forget. I simply delegated to persons of greater experience.”

“Are you calling your brand new husband a slag?”

“I would never say such a thing… Aloud.”

Greg threw his head back and laughed. Marriage of convenience, yes. The union was logical and mutually beneficial, certainly. But maybe… Wistful as it was, Greg thought they would both also be happy.

For a marriage of convenience, they settled rather easily into an agreeably comfortable routine. Mycroft was often awake an hour before Greg, though Greg was out the door for work an hour before Mycroft. Greg was often cramming the last of a toast slice into his mouth, running out the door, his coffee in a keep cup, trying not to drop his keys. Mycroft never had a hair out of place, absolutely refused to allow wrinkles in his suits, and definitely did not rush. If Greg was home with enough time, he liked to cook. Mycroft was able, though didn’t find it as enjoyable of an activity. They always split cleaning and drying the dishes. They managed to share one or two meals a week, provided Greg wasn’t neck deep in a high-pressure investigation and Mycroft wasn’t out of the country.

Mycroft spent a good deal of time in the home office, working at the large partner desk, with on occasion, some soft classical music audible in the background. There was space for Greg to work in there as well, but he was far more likely to be found in the entertainment room, case notes spread across the coffee table, the news on the TV as constant, background chatter. They had decided to share the bedroom.

Mycroft had offered Greg the master suite to himself, but as far as Greg was concerned, what was the point in being married to someone if you never see them. And often, the only time Greg saw Mycroft without the distraction of work or food, was the twenty minutes in bed before they were both asleep - if their schedules permitted a remotely similar bedtime. It was far less of a battle than Greg expected, worried as he had been that Mycroft would insist on privacy and personal space. But Mycroft had assured him that the bed was big enough to fit four people; the pair of them would have room enough for themselves. And that was true. So Greg was fine with that. He was. It was… Totally fine.

Maybe it had been a honeymoon period, the comfortable, frictionless existence. In the back of his mind, Greg had convinced himself that Sherlock would cause the first conflict. He had a nasty habit of stirring the pot, particularly where his brother was concerned. But Sherlock had left well enough alone, saying something about the path to hell…

That they’d known each other relatively well prior to the engagement should have raised alarm bells. Greg’s job and whatever exactly it was Mycroft did for the government or security services overlapped. They had shared interests and ventures. And it was only a matter of time before they were forced to interact in a professional capacity. Still, Greg was completely and utterly blindsided. Later, he’d blame it on the case. On the workload. On the stress. On the fact that he was just dim sometimes - maybe Sherlock  _ was _ right. On the fact that he’d completely dismissed Sherlock’s nonsense, rather than see it for what it really was - a warning.

“Another one?”

“Sorry, boss.”

Greg groaned and scrubbed at his face. He’d only been home for six hours over the past two nights. And last night had been just enough time for a quick shower and kip before he was back in the office. The overtime on this was going to be absurd, and that was if he could keep himself awake enough for it to even count. “Where?”

“Battersea.”

“Sally…” He winced and glanced at the map taped to his wall. “Battersea?”

Donovan sighed, “Yup.”

“Definitely the same?”

She crossed her arms. “We don’t have ballistics yet, but…”

“Right…” They were already spread so thin. “Who’ve we got left for SOCO?”

“No one.” She held up both hands when he frowned at her. “We can pull Mulligan’s team off of Clerkenwell?”

“Would Lee give us-” Sally’s expression was telling enough and Greg actually growled. “How in the hell does Adams expect us-” He dug his fingers into his hair. “Sod it all. You get the coffee, I’ll sort the ride.”

They were on site for three hours. On site, in the middle of the night, in the biting wind and something that might have been mist or rain depending on your perspective. He might have been a bit distracted, trying his best to stomp some feeling back into his toes, but he didn’t hear him approach.

“You’re getting sloppy, Detective Inspector.”

He jumped half a foot. “Jesus!”

“Not quite.”

Greg shook his head as much in scolding as to clear it. “Sherlock, if you’re here to help…”

Sherlock smirked. “Very little I can do to help you now. Perhaps, had you brought me in yesterday… I do think you’re rather out of time.”

“Out of… Sherlock, four men are dead!”

“I can see that.”

“And that’s not,” he waved a hand. “Important enough for you?”

“Petty killings are only interesting when I don’t know who committed them.”

“Who…” Greg blinked. “You know who…”

“As it stands. I suspect the who and the how will cease to be your problem.”

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Sherlock offered a cryptic smile.

“What in the hell does that mean? Sherlock?”

“Must go. Things to do. People to see.”

“Sherlock!” Greg stared after him. He couldn’t believe it. Of all the days - nights, his brain supplied - for Sherlock to take a belligerent holiday… 

Donovan appeared from the far side of the scene. “Mulligan is nearly done. He says there’s not much.”

Disappointment settled in his stomach like a stone. “Just like the other three.”

Donovan hummed. “Did himself have anything helpful to add?”

Greg grumbled; it was enough of an answer. Finally, he blew out a heavy breath. “Not much else to do here.”

“No,” she agreed miserably.

“You ok to drive? I don’t think I have the wherewithal to get us back.”

“Yeah, fine.”

For as much as he was worried he’d fall asleep, Donovan’s driving was more than enough incentive to stay awake. Then he hit a bit of a second wind. The hyperactive awareness of someone beyond exhaustion. He tried to shake it off as he headed up through the bullpen, but he was still twitchy as he opened the door to his office.

“Gregory.”

“Shit!” He startled. Goddamned Holmeses sneaking up on him. “Myc, what the hell! What are you doing here?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I would hope that it’s apparent by my presence in your office that I was intent on finding you.”

“I…” Greg frowned. It was his office. It was late. If he wasn’t at home, it wasn’t the worst place to try to find him. Christ, he was tired. He made his way around the desk to his chair and dropped into it rather heavily, gesturing for Mycroft to sit. “Right. Sorry. I was out at… This case is…”

“Gregory, I do realise you have put a great deal of time and energy into this current investigation.”

“Too bloody right.”

Mycroft folded his hands together in his lap. “Acknowledging that, I have come here to remove it from your workload.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

“Consider yourself relieved of the burden.”

He blinked again and rubbed at his forehead. “What do you mean relieved?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “You must understand, given my position in the government…”

“No, no wait.” He glared. “You’re… Taking my case?”

“It is being relegated to a different investigative branch.”

“You’re taking my case?!”

“Gregory, this is a bureaucratic issue. One which will no longer be a burden on your time.”

“What the fuck, Myc?! You can’t just swan in here at… At fuck all o’clock and take my bloody case!”

Mycroft’s brow rose sharply. “I believe you'll find that I have all the appropriate paperwork from your Deputy Assistant Commissioner-”

“Bollocks!”

“-And that I rather can.”

“Piss off.”

“If you would be so kind as to collect the details and case notes. I will provide a secure courier service.”

Greg crossed his arms belligerently. “Go away.”

“With the files.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Greg growled, pushing out of his chair. “Out.” He pointed at the door. “Now.”

“Gregory.”

“Don’t ‘Gregory’ me. Fuck off. Right now.”

“You’re exhausted.”

He lost the very weak hold he had on his temper. “How dare you! Christ, Myc! Get the fuck out of my office!”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed to slits as he stood. “I was hoping you would be reasonable. I volunteered to speak with you, because I know you trust justice will be done through alternative channels. None of which is particularly relevant, as you and your team have no choice in the matter.”

Greg huffed out a sharp, angry breath.

“You and I, on quite the other hand, need to speak at home.” He placed an envelope on Greg’s desk.

“I’m sorry, what?!” he snarled.

“I need to speak with you.” Mycroft answered flatly. “But I refuse to do so when you are so irrational. When you find you can behave in a civilised manner, I will see you at home.” He gave him a pointed look and walked out the door, closing it delicately in his wake.

It was such an unsatisfying end to a row. It was too quiet. Too calm. Too collected and condescending. Greg picked up the nearest object - a stapler, it turned out - and sent it crashing into the wall. It split open and bits of plastic and metal bounced off in every direction. He wanted to throw something else, but only just realised it was  _ his _ office. And then he’d need to clean it up too. And Mycroft was probably just doing his job. Which Greg was clearly failing at anyway. And, just fuck everything! He dropped into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

He took a few deep breaths. He felt so close to crying, or breaking something else, or just maybe falling asleep at his desk. God, if he hadn’t felt useless before, he really did now.  _ I need to speak with you _ . Greg’s gut twisted. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He couldn’t fathom that being anywhere near a pleasant conversation. Four people dead, a completely stalled investigation that was horribly understaffed and running on fumes, and bye-bye case, bye-bye job, probably toodles to the marriage too, given he’d just shouted his husband out the door of his office. Oh God, Myc would kick him out. Fuck, he needed… 

There was a light tap on his door.

That was certainly not what he needed. “Yeah?”

“You… Alright?” Donovan asked.

He sighed and tried to pull himself together. “Tell me that’s not why you came in here.”

“Not the shouting. I’m used to that.” Donovan gave him a wry smile. “It's just that I heard things breaking, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything important. Like your coffee mug.”

Greg snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “Just the stapler.”

“Oh no. That’s a super important law enforcement stationary good.” She leaned against the doorjamb with her arms crossed. “Did it stab you? I’ll swear up and down that it was self-defense.”

He heaved another sigh and shook his head. “You should go home, Sal.”

“Home? What’s that?”

“Seriously,” he slid the envelope closer to himself and peeled it off the desk. “I have been summarily informed that we don’t need to worry about the investigation as it’s being taken out of our hands.”

“What?”

“That’s what I said.” He frowned at the contents of the request. God, that was a stupid amount of words to say, ‘Above your paygrade.’ “And then the poor stapler ended up in bits.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“No really, Boss. Who the fuck was that, coming in here after midnight?”

“Frankly, I dunno if you have clearance for an official title. Lord only knows if I’ve been given the actual one.” He set the page down. “But I married him, so it’s my problem.”

Donovan’s jaw dropped open. “That was…”

“Mmn.” He scrubbed at his face. “Fuck it. Take tomorrow off, Sal. I’ll get the paperwork together, and that’ll be that. Fucking bureaucracy.”

She studied him for a long moment. “You ok getting home?”

It startled a laugh out of him. “Getting there is not the problem.” What was waiting when he got there… “I’ll be fine.” He would. He’d be fine. He had the contract to prove it. And he’d had a lawyer go over it with a fine tooth comb before he’d signed it. “Piss off, Sal.”

“Alright. But if I don’t hear from you in forty-eight hours, I’m going to assume you’re dead.”

“Dead asleep maybe,” he groused.

“Fine.” She pulled the door shut behind her.

He spared a glance at the stacks of papers, the map on his wall; thought about all the man hours, the teams he’d need reports from… He could get the ball rolling now. Nothing would actually be complete until daylight hours, but the requests could go out. He made a list, an actual physical list, so he could cross stuff off as it came back. It would make him feel better to aggressively strike through things on paper. And getting started would give him a chance to calm down. And a chance to avoid going home. If it was still home.

Six emails and eight neatly (not stapled) stacked piles of forms later, and he was sure his eyes were crossing. The anxiety at the thought of going home was losing slowly to exhaustion and the need for sleep. And the need for a fresh suit. He glanced at his watch and winced. If he left now, there was the very slight possibility that Mycroft would still be asleep. And a higher likelihood that, if he managed to get in without waking him, he’d leave Greg to sleep and they could have their row at dinner time. Regardless, it was a taxi home. No way he was getting behind the wheel of his car right now.

Most of the lights were out. Maybe Mycroft was asleep. Or… Not home? The thought sat uneasily with him. If he’d exploded enough that Myc didn’t even come home… Asleep. Probably asleep. 

He did his best to be quiet. To slip in through the front door and close it gently. He toed his shoes off, locked the door, and shed his coat. All near silent. And he headed for the stairs. And he thought, maybe for a second, that he’d manage. That he’d be able to pass out in bed. And sleep. And leave everything for the light of day.

“Gregory?”

He stopped a foot shy of the bottom most step. Shit. Not asleep then. “Myc…” He took a breath, feeling his shoulders hunch. He couldn’t do it. Not right now. “I… Am shattered. D’y’mind if I at least catch a nap before I, before I pack a bag, I guess?”

“What?”

Greg flinched. The question physically stuck somewhere under his ribs. He sounded… Confused. How was he confused? Greg turned cautiously, not really at all prepared for another confrontation. But Myc simply looked tired. He may have looked as tired as Greg felt. His shirt sleeves were cuffed and his hair as if he’d been running his hands through it. And he looked… Concerned? He swallowed. “I… Please, Myc. I just, I can’t do this tonight. I don’t… Just give me until the morning before you kick me out?”

“Kick you out?” Mycroft started across the front hall.

Greg took an instinctive step back. It was an odd response, reflexive and anxious. He wasn’t afraid of Mycroft. He wasn’t. It was simply a tangled emotional response borne of bone-deep exhaustion. He frowned down at his feet, his socks toeing the edge of the rug.

“Gregory?”

He watched Mycroft’s socked feet come to a stop just in front of his own. He was never in just his socks. He was never in just his shirt-sleeves either. Greg sighed and curled his toes under, struggling to keep his desperation in check. He wanted to cry. But he definitely didn’t want to cry right now. He just wanted to curl up in his bed and sleep. In his own bed.

“Why on Earth would I kick you out?”

This is what they had to talk about, and what he didn’t want to discuss. It was Mycroft’s house. His furniture. His sheets. His job. His rules. And Greg had all but fire bombed the lot of it. Whatever about the contract.

He shrugged a single shoulder then startled as Mycroft caught his chin between a thumb and forefinger, lifting his face until Greg was obliged to meet his gaze. “It is past four in the morning, Gregory. Why would I not want you here?” It felt as though his whole face flinched as his mouth pulled unhappily to the side. Mycroft’s brow furrowed and he stooped, forcing Greg to look him in the eye again. “Why do you think I’m still awake? I would never… Greg.” He waited for Greg’s attention. “This is your home.”

Oh God. He was actually going to cry. He tried to shore up what was left of his dignity. Pull back and compartmentalise like he did with work. “I…”

“Did you think…” Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes filling with concern. “You are exhausted. As am I. We…” He released Greg’s chin and smoothed a palm down from his shoulder to his elbow. “We had a disagreement. An industry - work related argument.” He squeezed Greg’s arm. “I hope, with some rest, some proper sleep, you’ll recall that I am not so petty as to throw you out of your own home over something so… So asinine.”

He pressed his eyes shut at the gentle pressure and heat of Mycroft’s hand and sagged with relief that was rivaled only by his sense of guilt. He felt lost. Completely unmoored. Cut free and pushed out to sea without anyone at the helm. “Yeah,” his voice cracked as he nodded. “I know.”

If Mycroft knew he was lying, he gracefully said nothing about it. “Go on ahead,” he rubbed Greg’s arm just once. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea.”

Greg nodded again. “Yeah. Ok.” It was a slow trudge up to the first floor, Mycroft watching from the foot of the stairs. It took more energy than he had to bother changing. Instead, he climbed into the bed and thought briefly about getting under the covers or moving the pillows. But as briefly as the idea existed, it was gone as quickly. And Greg couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to see if Mycroft joined him.

Hunger woke him. The kind of gnawing, nauseating sensation that spoke of too much caffeine and too little substance for too long. The vaguely threatening churning at the thought of just about any food made the need to eat unappealing. If he was lucky, they’d have juice in. Something sweet to settle his stomach, then coffee to hold off the headache, then maybe some real food. 

He pushed himself unsteadily from the bed, frowning at the idea that he’d slept in his boxers and undershirt. He didn’t remember making it to the bedroom, let alone getting into bed. He felt gritty and groggy and like the sleep he’d gotten was anything but restful. It was a lot like a hangover. A work hangover, if such a thing existed. Shower. He’d shower first. Then put on clothes. Then get food. Then… He groaned and realised he’d have to go into the Met.

Freshly showered, dressed in something he’d normally keep for days off, he made his way down to the kitchen. And bless the shopper that filled their cupboards, because there was juice and fruit and porridge, and there was coffee that just needed to be reheated. He put together a tray and settled in the entertainment room, flicking on the news to get an idea of what might have filtered out into the media. See how many fires he’d be putting out.

Very little. There was suspiciously little information. Normally by this point, the news would be raking them over the coals for lack of progress. After managing to eat enough, Greg tucked his feet up on the couch and sipped his coffee with a thoughtful frown. There were hints of a third victim, no mention of the fourth. No details of cause of death. No discussion of the course of investigation. And absolutely no mention of himself or his team. He took another sip. That meant something. It did. The only reason there’d be no information would be because someone was actively suppressing it. Or had classified it… Oh. Shit. He sighed. Of course.

“Gregory?”

He looked up in surprise, though not particularly startled. “Myc… I thought you’d be at work.”

The head tilt was as close to a shrug as Mycroft ever came. “This felt… more pressing.”

“Yeah.” Greg’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile and he nodded at the couch. “I um…” He rubbed a thumb around the rim of his mug. “I owe you an apology.”

“No. I should apologise.”

Greg snorted. “Pretty sure telling you to fuck off isn’t really on.”

“I did not enjoy that, no.” Mycroft flashed a wry smile. “However, there were far more diplomatic methods at my disposal than the rather heavy handed-”

“I have a bad temper,” Greg blurted out. 

“I’m not unaware.”

“And I, I lost my temper. At you.”

“And I arrived, unannounced, to your place of work, and antagonised you when you were exhausted.” Mycroft waved off the objection on Greg’s lips. “None of that is what deserves an apology. How I approached it, the way I spoke to you, led you to believe that I no longer wished you to be here. Which, allow me to assure you, is not the case.”

“Oh.”

“Gregory. How exactly did you reach that conclusion?”

He raked his teeth over his lower lip. “I… Dunno.” He didn’t. He couldn’t dredge up the lines of thought from the night.

Mycroft raised a brow.

“You said we needed to talk?”

“About the disagreement at work,” Mycroft finished slowly.

“You said… You said you needed to speak with me.” He tried to make his point gesticulating and wisely set his mug on the table. “It’s like… ‘We need to talk.’ It’s as bad as ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”

Mycroft frowned. “But. We needed to address the conflict.”

Greg let out a desperate laugh. “Renegotiate. The only other time I’ve heard it said that way was when you said that if we needed to renegotiate…”

“Our marriage?”

“Or the contract! I don’t know, Myc! I could barely see straight!”

He held up a hand in concession. “Yes. You were exhausted. I recognised that fact. And perhaps highlighting it at the time exacerbated the situation.”

“Maybe.” Greg heaved a sigh. “Tired or not, I’m still pissed.”

“About the case?”

“About you taking it.” He flopped back against the corner of the couch. “We’ve been working on it for weeks.”

“I am aware.”

He groaned. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“That we weren’t getting anywhere. We were.”

“You were. And that was part of the issue.”

“What?”

Mycroft sat forward and interlaced his fingers. “Hypothetically, if the issue was not progress. If the issue had been something different. Why would the investigation be removed from Scotland Yard?”

Greg studied his expression. He knew of investigations going to MI-5 for advancement, or maybe to Interpol, or to some unnamed group. But that was normally because it needed progress, because someone involved was important, or unnamed, or the victim… Or the offender. “Oh.” Mycroft tilted his head in concession. “Oh shit,” Greg muttered. Point taken. 

“To be clear, there is an issue of national security involving those within the purview of the investigation.”

To be clear. Greg shook his head. “So when Sherlock said it was too late to help…”

“He prefers to avoid any potential overlap with any of my remote colleagues. However, if he was antagonizing you as well, at such an advanced state of the investigation…” He let Greg fill in the blank. “Shall we address the other issue?”

Greg nodded. “The whole ‘me losing my temper’ thing?”

“The conflict arising from our careers coming to cross-purposes.”

“Makes me sound like less of a dick.” He wet his lower lip and stared at his hands. “Can it be someone else?”

Mycroft made an inquisitive sound.

“Just. It’s not easy, you know, even if I’m at my best, to let one go. And if it’s you...” He gestured somewhat helplessly. “It makes me want to dig in my heels and not, not let go of a case.”

“And it would be, perhaps, less personal, if I weren’t the one to interrupt your work.”

Greg nodded again. “Yeah.”

“There are other people who can be made available in the future.”

“Thanks.”

“Gregory?”

“Hm?”

“If we need to discuss something at home, I will suggest it. I prefer that communication about our private lives remain private. That’s all.”

Greg forced an assuaging smile. “Yeah. Ok.”

“And it is  _ Our _ private lives.” Mycroft gave his thigh a gentle, mollifying pat. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” He felt his smile soften into something more genuine. “Yeah. It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of violent crimes  
> Emotional insecurity


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any content warnings for the chapters will be in end notes of the chapter (if people are worried and would like to skip to those)

Cross-purposes were, thankfully, rare enough for them, particularly after establishing their own accord. True to his word, Mycroft didn’t drop by Greg’s office to pull clandestine rank, and Greg was slightly more accommodating when it came to turning investigations over to the government. He didn’t like it. Greg would never see relinquishing a case as a victory of any kind, but he understood the need for it. He could keep his temper in check for the good of humanity.

More often than not, if he lost his temper, it was due to provocation from Sherlock. Though, of late, Sherlock had turned his deductive destruction to Greg’s ability to work through investigations rather than his personal life. And maybe that was because Greg’s personal life was fairly settled. Contented. Happy? If not happy, fulfilled.

Most mornings, he was met with his breakfast - if one could call it that, Gregory - and coffee pre-made and ready for his mad dash out the door. He knew Mycroft would pass it off as fair exchange for the dinners that Greg tended to cook, but he only missed having his homemade coffee when Mycroft was out of town and he was running too late to bother.

Speaking of running, it had turned out that Mycroft was a rather avid runner. And while Mycroft preferred to run first thing in the morning, and Greg really only liked to do it after a day trapped at his desk, they were both willing to compromise on the weekends with nice weather. Hyde Park was ridiculously close by, and they had little excuse not to make use of the paths. Together. When the weather was uncooperative and much more like London, the treadmill in the home gym was a decent alternative, though not a joint endeavour. 

Sundays tended to be earmarked as days to be at home. Neither of them were prone to lie-ins, but a slow start with good coffee and reading the paper was nothing to scoff at. If Greg tended to swipe the sports section and leave the business pages for Mycroft, the less said about it, the better. Except for the time that the Gunners had been absolutely, criminally demolished by the Villains. Mycroft had gotten to the paper first that morning, and the sports pages had the most precise squares of paper cut out, eliminating any and all Premier League news.

So Greg had his work, which he loved; his home, which made him comfortable; and his husband, who cared for him in his own way. And Greg liked Mycroft. He had creepingly affectionate thoughts with growing ease that sometimes surprised him.

Interestingly, the only fight they’d had since that night in Greg’s office was a stupid spat over home renovations and paying for them. Mycroft had won that argument. He was very good at logically debating Greg into submission. And at the end of the day, Mycroft’s security upgrades had been necessary for his own position. It seemed only fair that he financially bear the greater burden. 

Greg turned around and bought them a new dishwasher. Then he replanted the beds out back on his long weekend off of work. He had more to contribute than money. Mycroft had to look at the gorgeous new herb garden from his office window. It was an oddly spiteful pleasure, but it ended their disagreement.

Just after celebrating their one-year anniversary, there was a major function that required their joint attendance. Greg had been to one or two of Mycroft’s work events, but most were brief, or low importance, or full of familiar faces. Half the time, Greg’s own schedule kept him from going at all. Sure, crime didn’t sleep for delegates and ambassadors. But Greg could tell that this one was different. It was Serious with a capital S. And there was something about it that made him uneasy, but he was having trouble putting his finger on what exactly it was. Overall, it left him feeling woefully inadequate.

Mycroft was… concerned. Distracted. Consumed and preoccupied. Far more so than normal. Greg could practically hear Mycroft’s thoughts whirring late into the night. And there were many late nights, keeping Mycroft in the office until well after his usual time, arriving home with tension at the corners of his eyes and in the long line of his spine. None of which Greg could soothe. There were phone calls beyond phone calls taken behind closed doors or conducted in languages Greg didn’t speak. The strain built over the weeks leading up to the event. Their home filled with a niggling unease and constant disquiet that even their routine plans couldn’t calm.

WIth all the unsettled restlessness, Greg started to have the sneaking suspicion that he was the root cause. He tried to be home more, but what was the use if Mycroft wasn’t? He tried to talk more, but then it came off like inane chatter. And Mycroft didn’t need that after a long day of talking at work. He tried to do more, be more, but without knowing what was missing, it was impossible to fill the gap. And when work was busy, he was pulled too far, stretched too thin, and he really started to worry that he just wasn’t enough.

When it happened, Greg couldn’t say he was totally surprised. The timing could have, maybe, been better. Getting the call while on scene was less than ideal. As it was, he could hardly hear Mycroft over the howling of the wind. And just to spite him, the rain didn’t hold off for much longer.

“Lestrade.”

“Gregory.”

He plugged his free ear with his finger. “Myc?”

“Gregory, can you hear me?”

“Sorry. Sorry, Myc, the wind is… Give me a mo.” He found something of a shelter behind one of the vans. “There. I can probably hear you for a sec. What’s going on?”

“I’ve caught you out of the office.”

“Y-yeah. Sorry.”

“You needn’t apologise. This is a bad time. We can discuss this later.”

“Discuss?”

“I… Gregory, I need to speak with you. Perhaps tonight. At dinner.”

“You need…” He pinched the bridge of his nose.  _ I need to speak with you. _ He should have known. Mycroft had been… pulling away. Rather steadily. It had to be something to do with the event. Something Greg couldn’t do for him. Something wrong with him. But to bring it up right now seemed cruel. He was at work! “Right. Dinner…”

“Is that-”

“Fine. It’s fine.” Fuck, maybe they’d stop walking on eggshells around each other again.

“Gregory…”

“I’ve got to go, Myc.” He wasn’t about to have it out over the phone when he could barely hear him, much less see him. Sometimes, it was only by the minute facial expressions Mycroft occasionally allowed that Greg could even halfway understand what he wanted. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Alright.”

He rang off and shoved his phone into his pocket.  _ I need to speak with you. _ He wondered what he’d done. What he didn’t do. This bloody function, whatever it was. A fucking year. He let his head drop back against the side of the van with a dull thud. He blinked up at the heavy clouds and flinched as the skies opened. Sodding perfect.

He stayed at work as long as was even remotely excusable. The day hadn’t closed any better than it opened, and Greg was still drenched when he walked in the door. He hung up his coat and abandoned his shoes on the front mat, nearly making it to the stairs before Mycroft emerged from his office and noticed him.

“Gregory?”

He stopped, hand on the banister. “Hey… I…”

“Good Lord, you’re soaked.”

He offered a weak smile. “Raining…”

“Go have a shower. I’ll heat up dinner. And pour a glass of wine for you.”

He nodded. Strange. He would have thought Mycroft would want to just get it over with. He had expected Myc to herd him into the home office straight from the front door and make him face the music. Make it abundantly clear what it was Greg was lacking. It wasn’t like him to draw out painful interactions. If nothing else, he was direct. Greg kept the shower brief and redressed in an old pair of sweats and tee shirt. No sense in being uncomfortable. And no sense in putting it off any longer.

Mycroft was waiting in the kitchen, a meal laid out, and a glass of wine ready. “Please, eat while it’s warm.”

Greg took a fortifying sip of wine and picked up his spoon. He was going to have to force himself to eat. He watched Mycroft toy with his own wine stem for a moment.

“Are you… Are you well?”

He frowned.

Mycroft tilted his head and averted his gaze. “You look, tired. More tired than simply a poor day at work could explain.”

Greg tried and probably failed to hide the wince. “Bad day. That’s all. I’m wrecked.” 

“You have had a number of bad days of late?”

“No more than usual.” He only managed a few spoonfuls of soup before he had to stop. It wasn’t sitting well in his stomach. “You, uh. You wanted to talk?”

Mycroft hummed. “I did.” In the natural inflective pause, Greg hung his head, feigning interest in the rapidly cooling food. “It’s about the banquet in two weeks.”

What? His head popped up. So it was a banquet then. “The banquet?”

“Mmn,” Mycroft twisted the glass against the countertop. “I’m deeply afraid I need you to be fitted for an appropriate tux with my tailor.”

“A-a tux?”

“Yes.” he answered simply. “It’s a rather formal engagement. As much as I adore your suits, none of them are quite sufficient.”

“A tux,” he repeated slowly. This was about a tux?

“I recognise the cost would be above the usual for you. And I’m more than happy to cover the expense.”

_ I need to speak with you.  _ He let out a tight laugh. “You… A tux? Jesus, Mycroft!” What kind of horrible impression had he made when they were getting fitted for their wedding tuxes that Myc would think he needed to be wheedled into one with that level of mediation? He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“I recall how you feel about formal wear… And about our division of finances… And I…” Mycroft paused. “Whatever did you think I needed to speak with you…”

Greg dropped his hands and stared at him incredulously. 

“Did you think I wanted to, to renegotiate-”

“Dump me,” Greg finished firmly. “Or find an escort for this banquet thing. Or… I dunno.”

“An escort?” Mycroft blinked. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I don’t know!” Greg threw up his hand. “You said ‘I need to speak with you.’ What was I supposed to think?”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said firmly, setting his hand atop the one resting beside the soup bowl. “Private lives private. I have, clearly, made a poor choice in my words.”

“Clearly,” he scoffed. “My God, Myc. I’ve been… I’ve been in knots all day!”

“I promise,” he squeezed Greg’s hand for emphasis. “If ever it came to… To needing to… I cannot fathom ever wanting…” He took a breath. “I have been unnecessarily distracted by this event. I will do better.”

It was Greg’s turn to blink. “I… Right.” He sighed. “Is it actually unnecessary distraction? Because you, you are really… Involved with this thing.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Involved.”

“Feels like I haven’t really seen you for ages,” Greg gave a weak smile.

“And I have unnecessarily upset your day when we’re both exhausted. Forgive me?”

“If I forgive you, do I still have to get fitted for a tux?” Greg asked hopefully.

Mycroft gave him a fond smile. “Sadly, yes.”

Greg sacrificed the better part of his Saturday at the tailors. It was made bearable by two things. First, Mycroft had promised dinner out at one of their favorite Italian restaurants if he behaved. And second, Mycroft was there watching, ostensibly to make sure he behaved. Though they both knew he was there to try to encourage mischief. And somehow, Mycroft watching the proceedings brought about some level of rougery. In spite of the occasional facial expression, often noted by a wry comment on Mycroft’s part, Greg still won an excellent dinner at the end of the day. And when he returned for a final fitting, alone for expediency’s sake, he had to admit, the tux was fantastic. That Mycroft had settled the bill ahead of time barely registered on Greg’s radar.

Mycroft had continued to wind himself into tighter and tighter knots before the event. Greg tiptoed around him, walking on eggshells for the last few days. He knew better than to ask about it. If Mycroft could tell him, he would. The secrets were purely work related and Greg was willing to understand, in as far as it was both protective and self preservation. When the day actually came for the sodding thing, Greg was more than relieved.

“And we agree, no more than three glasses of champagne.”

“Yeah,” Greg called back. “How many scotches on top of that?”

“Gregory, please.”

“Just one, eh?”

Mycroft sighed loudly from behind the bathroom door. “Behave yourself.”

“Sod it all,” he grumbled, untying his bowtie for the millionth time. “Myc, I swear, bowties were designed to drive me insane. Can I just… I give up. You’re going to need to do this or find me a clip on.”

“Under no circumstances would I allow my husband to attend a black tie event in a clip-on bowtie.” Mycroft slipped from the bathroom, looking every ounce of polished perfection. “Come here.”

Greg turned from the mirror in exasperation. “Fine. But if it comes loose, it’s going in the bin.” He lifted his chin to give Mycroft room to work.

Mycroft paused, hesitated for a blink, then seemed to collect himself. “You’re not to put the bowtie in the bin.” He deftly tied the bow at Greg’s neck then smoothed his palms along the shoulders, tweaked one of the lapels. “This turned out rather well.”

Greg forced a wry smile. “It’s a well fit monkey suit. But at least it’s well fit.”

Mycroft hummed. “I should hope so.”

Greg tamped down on a blush. “So. What else about tonight? Limited alcohol. Keep the bowtie.”

“I may need to… Abandon you, however briefly, to have a conversation.”

“Ah.”

“I will let you know before I must engage in any private discussions. I shan’t ‘throw you to the wolves’ as they say.”

Greg nodded. Seemed fair. “Anything else?”

“No,” Mycroft straightened. “Enjoy the food. Enjoy the champagne. I think I’ll enjoy showing you off somewhat.”

“Arm candy?” He raised a brow.

“Nothing so inelegant.”

Greg had to admit, he’d never been to such a stately affair. There was more pretense and politics in the meet and greet than he’d ever experienced, and he trusted the people he met just about as far as he could throw them. Chances were, Mycroft gleaned more information from them by their reaction to meeting Greg than in any closed door conference. It was clear that Lord Whatshisface had a problem with them as a couple. Tall Dark and Rude had made Greg uneasy and Mycroft bristle. And Ambassador Snooty Pants had all but turned up his nose at Greg’s profession. He felt a bit like he was boxing above his weight even in the small talk. There was only so much he could say about his work, and even less that he could say about everyone else’s. So when Mycroft pressed a third glass of champagne into his hand, Greg had to eye it warily.

“There is food eventually, isn’t there?”

The slight curl of Mycroft’s mouth was probably only apparent to him. “Another half an hour, I suspect.”

“This is three,” Greg muttered, lifting the glass in a toast before taking a small sip. “Just if we’re still actually counting.”

“We are. And you’re doing wonderfully.” 

“Is this why you were so high strung? Because all these people are arseholes?”

“Partially. And nearly all.” Mycroft glanced over Greg’s shoulder and smiled politely. “And in a moment, I will be forced to make good on the promise to abandon you.”

Greg winced. “How long?”

“I will be back before we are seated for dinner. I shall keep it as short as possible. Perhaps twenty minutes, no more than thirty. But before I go, allow me to make one more introduction.”

Greg bit back a groan and made a passing attempt at a smile. “Right. Ok, let’s…” He gestured and turned to face the person Mycroft was preparing to greet.

“Ah, Vincent. A pleasure.” It was a warmer greeting than Greg had witnessed all night. “Allow me,” he gestured to Greg. “My partner, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He is currently with New Scotland Yard.”

Greg held out his hand and received a firm shake in return.

“Gregory, Vincent Mesman. Currently of INTERPOL.” Mycroft’s hand caressed his lower back as he leaned close. “I do suspect you’ll be working together in the near future. Play nice.” It was as close to physically affectionate as Mycroft Holmes would be in public, and nearly more than he was in private.

“No promises,” Greg grinned. He knew Mycroft trusted him. And he knew Mycroft wouldn’t worry too much. He just wanted him back before dinner. To his credit, Vincent was a decent conversationalist and their interests were closely aligned. They had a relatively in depth discussion on a few of the recent shared cases, though none were Greg’s. And evolving techniques on cross-border tracking, which was probably closer to Mycroft’s purview than Greg’s.

At the soft chiming of the dinner bell, they exchanged cards and Vincent excused himself. Greg glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes. Mycroft was late. It was unlike him to be late. Uncharacteristic. Foreboding? He eyed the open doors to the dining room and frowned. It didn’t feel right. Something just… Call it gut instinct, call it detective’s intuition, his hackles were up. He set his nearly full glass of champagne on the closest flat surface and headed away from the dining room, off in the same direction that Mycroft had disappeared.

“Sir, I believe they are seating people for dinner.”

Greg raised both brows at the bloke that had intercepted him, stepped in front of him, blocked him. “Oh, yeah, I know,” he flashed an easy grin. The suit the man was wearing didn’t match the catering staff; it was close, but not exact. And if he wasn’t mistaken, the gentleman was armed. Well that was disconcerting. “S’just that,” he leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially, and to visually confirm that there was a shoulder holster. “I need th’loo.” There, he sounded and looked reasonably intoxicated.

The man eyed him for a moment and, with a barely audible huff, he gestured down the corridor. “To the left, third door on the right.”

“Cheers, mate.” He clapped the man on the shoulder and tried to make his gait look a touch unsteady. No one would miss him at the table yet. Sure no one in the dining room probably knew what he looked like. When he rounded the corner, he paused; the hallway was eerily quiet, any ambient noises muffled by the carpeting. Mycroft was probably down this way. Maybe. So he walked carefully, straining to hear the rumble of a conversation. The first door he tried was locked. As was the second. He found the loos, but passed by quickly. There were people in the next room. Not many. Maybe two or three, judging by the number of voices. Faint whispers of conversation creeping from underneath the door.

He tilted his head as close to the door as he dared.

“... Holmes.”

Holmes. He heard it. He was sure he did. And the short answer that came in reply was Mycroft’s timbre. Right so… 

He was a bit surprised to find the door unlocked. The knob turned easily in his hand and he practically stumbled into the room. Two people. There were two in the room, including Mycroft, who was in a chair as the other stood with an aggressive posture. Greg immediately held up his hands in apology. “Shit. This isn’t the loo.”

Mycroft’s expression was drawn, but something of relief flashed momentarily through his eyes. The other gentleman in the room was not relieved. In fact, he seemed incredibly put out by the interruption, turning towards Greg with a snarl, “What, exactly do you think you’re doing here?"

Oh. Ambassador SnootyPants. Right. Greg plastered the best innocent look he could muster on his face. “Looking for the little boy’s room? Sorry. Oh hey, Myc! Babe, they’re serving dinner.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

He should have expected it. He really should have. He’d known there was something untoward happening here. He was uncomfortably aware that Mycroft was unsettled. He just hadn’t been sure if it was something in his own purview or Mycroft’s. And in the fraction of a second that he was pondering it, the answer came in the form of the worst cold-cock from his mate back at the beginning of the hall.

It was shockingly painful. He registered that. Then again, he’d been sucker punched before. Just that it clearly wasn’t a fist that connected with the side of his head. It was something harder, metal, and it split the skin over his temple at the same moment that it managed to knock the sense out of him completely. One moment, he’d been standing, talking. The next, he was flat on the floor, bleeding.

He heard Mycroft shout his name.

He heard some heated words exchanged by all three of them.

It wasn’t that he was playing dead in as much as he actually couldn’t move for a minute or two. His brain locked in a loop of ‘Christ, that fucking hurts!’ and ‘Shit, I’m going to puke!’ and an oddly legless sensation. He tried to steady his breathing. Keep the world from spinning by keeping his eyes closed. Slowly gather his senses and wits and get a handle on the entire situation before moving again. 

The first thing he could clearly discern was Mycroft speaking in a low, angry voice. “... most foolish decision of your life, Nigel.”

Nigel… Of fucking course SnootyPants was a Nigel. The giddiness must have been a side effect of having his head bashed in. He could remember a few times, mostly alcohol fueled brawls, where he was nursing a bloodied nose and overcome with giggles. Maybe that was less to do with the pints than he’d thought.

“How does that saying go? In for a penny, in for a pound? Cops are cheap, replaceable, and disposable.”

Oi. That was rude. It was also oddly threatening. And he thought he might have heard Mycroft growl, which was incredibly unusual and really concerning. He cracked an eye and the world twisted, forcing him to bite back the cuss on the tip of his tongue. Right. Trying again, he managed to bring a pair of black leather shoes into focus. The backs of the shoes. And two pant legs. Also the backs. Probably his friend from the hallway.

Figuring he had about five minutes of fight in him before he vomited the lovely champagne they’d been drinking, and only one go at it, Greg took a slow steady breath in. And lunged.

He grabbed both ankles and heaved, grinning in self satisfaction as the man toppled to the ground. The loud clatter was a gun.

Shit.

Gun.

He scrambled overtop of the goon, closing his hand around the gun and bringing it to bear against its previous owner. “I will absolutely shoot you in the head.” He absolutely wouldn’t.

Mycroft flashed him a smile, holding up a warning hand towards SnootyPants. “I rather think you ought to stay where you are, Nigel.”

Greg wasn’t feeling very polite or very forgiving as he hauled the thug to his feet and pinned him to the wall with one arm twisted high up his back. He spared Mycroft a glance. “Myc, honey, what do you think? I could arrest them, but… Your people or mine?”

“Mine,” Mycroft said primly. “Far less paperwork, darling.”

Yeah. Less paperwork. Good. Neat. He blinked back a wave of dizziness. “Do you want to maybe give them a call or something?”

“No need.”

There were four of them. Quick enough response, Greg thought woozily. He couldn’t have been in the room more than a minute himself. He relinquished the gun immediately, happy to have it out of his hands. Then gladly let a pair of the Security Services take his friend from the wall. Which left a large swath of empty space for him. Upon which it seemed like a really good idea for him to rest. 

He turned his back to the solid surface and slumped against it. God, he was shaking. Queasy. Horribly light-headed. And… And now he was sitting on the floor. He couldn’t quite remember making that decision. Was it a decision?

“Gregory?”

Mycroft’s hands were warm and gentle, cupping his jaw to lift his chin. Then his bowtie was loosened and the top button of his shirt released, making it easier to breathe. Greg flinched at the prodding by his temple, hissing out a muted curse.

“You’re bleeding.”

Oh. Right, yeah. He tried to blink away the hazy edges that had crept into the room and felt a cold sweat break out across his skin. That… didn’t bode well. Mycroft’s face was replaced with a bright light and he tried to swat it away.

“Gregory, please.” His wrist was caught and long fingers twined with his. “I insist you allow the paramedics to examine you.”

Paramedics. That made sense. He was bleeding. And felt nauseated. He squinted at the light. Winced appropriately. And did his best to sit still as they glued the laceration. Mycroft held his hand patiently at his side, answered questions as they were asked. And when they were done with him, and Mycroft had categorically refused him a trip to the ED, he found himself walking unsteadily down a hall, leaning heavily against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

Reaching the car was a relief - the interior was cool and dim, and he was exhausted. It was fine until they started to move. Every bump and turn jarred his head and he groaned as they hit the third pothole. He pressed his eyes shut and tried to lean forward, if he could just rest his head in his hands, he might make it home without being sick.

“Gregory.” A firm hand on his shoulder kept him from slipping forward off the seat. He muttered an objection, but then he was tipping, a slow descent onto his side. “I have you.” ‘Having’ was cushioning Greg’s head in his lap and Greg had to admit it was far more comfortable than falling into the wheel well. Fingers slowly carded through his hair, easing down the side of his neck and back up. He must have fallen asleep. 

His shoulder was squeezed. “Gregory? Come along. We’re home.” He might have grumbled, but he was eased upright and then he was walking. Stumbling along wherever Mycroft was leading. He tried to concentrate on keeping his feet from knocking off each other, or Mycroft’s. “Here, sit.”

Greg sat. It took a moment to get his bearings, but he was pretty sure he was in the en suite, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. Funny, he didn’t remember stairs. Mycroft tapped lightly on the door as he returned, with his shirt sleeves cuffed up to his elbows, holding a bowl and extra flannels. Greg blatantly pouted at him. “My bow tie didn’t last.”

A gentle smile appeared at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “No. But I believe that was my doing.” Greg blinked at him slowly. “Can you manage to remove your jacket on your own?”

It shouldn’t have been difficult, but he struggled, the sleeves bunching on his arms and catching. Mycroft tutted and carefully freed him, hanging the jacket on the door hook before turning his attention to Greg’s cufflinks. Greg watched somewhat absently. Home, their home, had taken on a hazy, surreal quality. And if his head didn’t hurt, he might have thought he was dreaming. The fact that he had a headache the size of the Met kept him just uncomfortable enough that sleep didn’t seem possible. “Don’t lose those,” he croaked. “My husband gave ‘em to me.”

“Did he now?” Mycroft slid the cufflinks into his pocket.

“Kinda fond of ‘em.”

Mycroft crouched on one knee, easing free the laces of Greg’s oxfords. “The cufflinks or your husband.”

“Yup.” Greg snorted, then groaned. “No. No laughing.”

Mycroft hummed and set the shoes aside. “How sore is your head?”

He blushed as Mycroft started on the buttons of his shirt. “Enough to know I’m not hallucinating.” There was something complex in Mycroft’s expression, and he just couldn’t parse it. It looked sad. The shirt didn’t join the jacket, but was draped over the edge of the tub. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Mycroft retrieved the bowl and a flannel from the counter top.

“I think I ruined the tux.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

The flannel was warm against his cheek and he tried not to lean into the gentle sensation. “Sorry.”

Mycroft wrung the flannel out in the bowl, tinging the water pink. When he lifted his head, his focus seemed entirely on the task at hand. “You have nothing to apologise for.” It was said so simply, so matter-of-factly, that Greg couldn’t bring himself to argue. Mycroft was careful of the freshly glued laceration, delicately cleaning the blood that had tracked through his hair and down his neck. It was calming. Finally, Mycroft smoothed a hand down his arm. “I’ll leave you to change. I have water and paracetamol in the bedroom. Is there anything else you need? Do you think you could eat?”

He furrowed his brow. “I should.”

“I shall find something for you.”

It was autopilot. Rote movements that he could do with his eyes half open. Loo, hands, teeth. Mycroft had left a soft tee shirt and pajama pants for him, so he finished changing and felt like he might have just enough energy to make it to bed before face-planting. Mycroft was waiting in the bedroom, ushered him into the bed, hovered until he managed to eat a piece of toast and swallow some paracetamol, tucked him in - Greg was pretty sure that what Mycroft had done counted as tucking him in - and turned to go. “Myc?” He caught his wrist loosely.

“We should speak in the morning.” When Greg didn’t release him, he sighed. “You need rest.”

He did. He was so sore and just wrecked and he was pretty sure he’d bruised his knees and elbows and maybe his shoulder. But he also just… He worried his lower lip. He didn’t want to be alone. Being left alone felt terrifying.

“Ah.” He didn’t know what that meant, or what Mycroft saw, but he carefully removed himself from Greg’s grip. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He tried to relax. Tried to get comfortable in the nest of pillows and blankets. But it didn’t work. He listened to the sounds of Mycroft moving around the bathroom, the taps running, the door, the light clicking off. And after a minute, Mycroft slipped into the bed and settled against the headboard, tablet in hand. “Still work?”

“I always have work.” Greg didn’t miss the flicker of a smile and snorted in response. Mycroft tutted and rested his free hand on the crown of Greg’s head. “Go to sleep, Gregory.”

“You go to sleep,” Greg grumbled at him.

Mycroft’s only response was to slowly card his fingers through Greg’s hair. Stroking gently down the nape of his neck and back up. It was like being petted. It was rhythmic and soothing. And Greg couldn’t keep his eyes open. The headache eased to a dull thud. And Greg found himself lulled closer and closer to sleep. Quite distantly, he recognised the sound of Mycroft’s tablet being placed on the nightstand. He vaguely registered the lamp flicking off. And just before the last tug of exhaustion pulled him under, he thought he might have felt Mycroft press a delicate kiss to his forehead. But then he was asleep before he could really be sure.

Greg woke to a room that was too bright and a bed that was decisively empty. His headache was thumping again, and he was pretty sure that every muscle in his neck and shoulders were tied in knots. On top of it, he was hungry and needed coffee. He grumbled the whole way down to the kitchen, his mood only easing when he found the fresh, full pot of coffee ready next to a bag from one of his favorite bakeries.

“Good morning, Gregory.”

He jumped and immediately regretted moving as quickly, steadying his coffee mug before turning. “Morning.”

“How are you feeling?” 

He felt like, in spite of the time spent unconscious, he’d not really slept. He felt like he probably ought to take some paracetamol. He felt like he should definitely eat something first. He felt like he possibly should examine why waking up alone felt like a slap in the face. But with all of that, he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Been better.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, his expression suggesting that Greg easily could have said all of that aloud. “Would you be well enough to discuss what happened last night?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he sighed, though almost immediately regretted it when Mycroft pulled out one of the chairs and gestured to it. So it was a ‘talk’ talk.  _ I need to speak with you _ . Greg eyed it warily before sitting across from Mycroft.

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment, studying him instead, carefully selecting his words. “Last night… What occurred last night cannot happen again.”

Greg swallowed. “‘M sorry.”

Mycroft held up a hand. “No. No apologies. You do not need to apologise for what happened; I do.”

Greg furrowed his brow. “But I-”

“Gregory, please.” Mycroft cut him off again. “It was my fault. And it has made something abundantly clear. I have become complacent when it comes to security. Both yours and mine.”

“Security?”

“As my position has evolved, there have been whispers about raising my protection, and I believe I neglected those hints much to your detriment.”

“My detriment?”

Mycroft raised a brow pointedly. “I don’t believe being pistol whipped was high on your list of preferences yesterday evening.”

Greg winced.

“But in addition to increasing the layers of protection around me, I believe it is time to do the same for you.”

Greg crossed his arms defensively. “I… What about my job? I can’t have a bunch of suits just hanging around the Met.”

“Nothing so gauche. While I will likely have visible security, I would like to ask you to start carrying a panic button.”

“A panic button?”

Mycroft set a small device on the table and nodded. “Yes. I rather insist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotional insecurity  
> Minor peril  
> Canon typical violence


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any content warnings for the chapters will be in end notes of the chapter (if people are worried and would like to skip to those)

Not many people noticed the changes around Greg. Well, Sherlock did. But Sherlock noticed everything and particularly noticed Mycroft related things. Thankfully, he deigned to keep his disapproval between Greg and himself. Greg did, unfortunately, get an earful. A long, loud, condescending earful. But Greg had married Mycroft, not Sherlock. He lov-liked… He liked Mycroft. He tolerated Sherlock because he was smart, and on the very rare occasion, helpful; he was Mycroft’s brother. But he actually liked Mycroft.

For Mycroft’s peace of mind, Greg carried one panic button on his keyring and another secreted on his person. When he was working, no one would suspect he had watchers and Greg never noticed them himself. Then again, as Mycroft put it, if he could see them, they wouldn’t be doing their job. It didn’t make Greg feel all that much safer, but it made Mycroft happy, so he was willing to tolerate it.

Mycroft’s security changed to a much more noticeable extent. For starters, Mycroft no longer drove himself to and from his Whitehall offices. And Greg was well aware of the difference between a chauffeur and a professional driver. Chauffeurs didn’t tend to be quite so big that they barely fit in the car and they really didn’t tend to drive armed. The cars changed too - sitting deeper on their chassis with tinted windows. And security in Mycroft’s office was heavily increased. So, armored cars, armed drivers, metal detectors, and Greg would bet his half of their income that there was a second, invisible security team within shouting distance at all times.

And then there was Mycroft’s PA.

She’d introduced herself as Anthea Beaudelaire, but Greg had his doubts about her name. He had even less confidence in her role as a PA. In fact, PA his arse. There was no way that a woman that clever, that polished, and that predictively efficient was merely minding Mycroft’s calendar. She was a handler of sorts, that was certain. But her job had disturbingly high clearance and unfettered access to Mycroft. And she was a gatekeeper of sorts, limiting other people’s access to Mycroft. She never seemed to filter Greg out, unless there was a meeting that couldn’t be interrupted. Now, instead of getting Myc’s voicemail, Greg got Anthea.

It wasn’t that Greg didn’t like her. Not exactly. She was effortlessly smooth. Amicable. Dismissible. And it was that inclination to disregard her that felt wrong. He couldn’t trust that sensation, and he certainly wasn’t going to discard his instincts. Anthea-if-that-is-her-real-name-Beaudelaire was someone for Greg to keep his eye on.

Mycroft seemed to trust her. So that was something. And Mycroft didn’t trust just anyone. He would have vetted her thoroughly, so it wasn’t like she could be on the take. It was just that she went  _ everywhere _ with Mycroft. She was outside of his office. She was escorting him to meetings, and even holding his phone while he was in them. She was accompanying him on his international trips. And on the worst of days, she was in Greg’s kitchen when he got home, bringing Mycroft more work…to do after dinner. Or during dinner. It was enough to make Greg flinch at the sound of her heels on the tiles.

And even on the day that Greg had managed to escape his office. The day he had finished the last of the paperwork. The day he’d figured that walking out the door at five on the nose was allowed. The day he was in a good mood. A great mood, really. The day that he was elated enough with the outcome of an investigation that he decided to cook dinner. That day, he popped the cork on a champagne bottle as the door opened and he called out so Mycroft would find him in the kitchen. “Come and get it while it’s hot!”

That day, Mycroft appeared in the kitchen door with Anthea at his elbow and a delicate frown. “Gregory, you’ve gone to too much trouble.”

“I…” He felt his good mood evaporate. “I cooked.” It was a stupid thing to say. Clearly he’d cooked. The roast was settling on the hob. There was salad on the table. The aroma of bread in the oven probably reached the front door. And he froze there, two glasses of champagne in his hand and a dopey smile melting off his face.

Anthea touched Mycroft’s forearm. “Tbilisi.”

“Of course.” Mycroft pressed his eyes shut momentarily. “I’ll meet you in the home office.”

Greg watched Anthea leave for the work space with a sinking feeling in his gut. “You have… work?”

It wasn’t even a nod. “I am afraid…”

Greg swallowed. “Right. Ok. I’ll um…” He turned his back to Mycroft. “I’ll put a plate in the oven. You can… when you’re done…”

“Gregory…”

“It’s fine.” He flashed an unconvincingly bright smile. “It’s fine. Some other time.” Then he’d busied himself putting away what would be an incredible amount of leftovers. What a waste.

Mycroft stood silently in the doorway for a long moment before joining Anthea in the office.

Greg made himself a plate and relocated to the entertainment room with the champagne. The cork was already out of the bottle, he wasn’t about to waste it all. He’d actually made a really good meal; he could tell, because it only mildly tasted of ash in his mouth. The champagne was harder to taint with a bad mood, but that really didn’t excuse drinking the entire bottle and passing out in front of SkySports.

“Gregory?”

“He’s quite precious when asleep.”

“The guest room is on the second floor. You can show yourself, my dear.”

Greg grumbled and curled tighter into a ball. His head didn’t feel fantastic and come to think of it, his neck had a crick.

“Don’t want me to stay? Scare off the boogeymen?”

Mycroft sighed as Greg forced his eyes open and frowned. “Wha’sit?”

“You shouldn’t sleep down here,” Mycroft murmured. “Come up to bed.”

“Oh.” Greg rubbed a hand across his face and squinted around the room, quickly catching up with himself. “Right.” He noticed Anthea before she slipped out of the room and scowled. “Sure.”

He followed Mycroft up the stairs, quietly changing into pajamas and numbly brushing his teeth before moving towards the bed. Mycroft was already in the bed, reading lamp on, overhead light off, hands fumbling with the duvet. And Greg froze at the bedside. Suddenly unwilling to sleep, loath to be in the bed, and disobligingly angry.

“Gregory?” 

“Why is she still here, Myc?!” It burst out of him in an indignant rush.

Mycroft blinked, frowning slightly. “She works for me. You know that.”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Gregory, I’m honestly lost.”

Greg punched one of his pillows, still refusing to actually get into the bed. “Why is she here? In our house?”

“We have an early start in the morning, and-”

“You’re the one that said our marriage had to be beyond reproach!”

“You think-” Mycroft cut himself off, stilling his own anxious movements at once and studying Greg thoroughly. “Are you jealous?”

It was a question - an actual question. Greg barked out a single, loud, caustic laugh. “Jealous? Why would I be jealous?! What possible reasons could I have to be bloody well jealous of a beautiful woman that spends every waking minute with my husband?!”

“Gregory.”

He knew Mycroft was probably right. He knew it and it only twisted the knife that bit deeper. “She’s in our house.”

“She’s staying on a different floor.”

“She’s here all the time. And I never… I never see you anymore.” And there it was. The long and the short of it. He was jealous. And he had no idea what to do about it. “And if I see you, we don’t…” He growled and clenched a fist in his own hair out of pure frustration. “I never see you. We never spend time together anymore. We never talk.”

“We’re talking right now.”

“Shouting doesn’t count! God!” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “This is our home, Myc.”

“Gregory.” When he didn’t startle too heavily at the touch, Mycroft’s fingers wrapped around his wrists and eased them down to his sides. “Gregory, please.”

He heaved a sigh and blinked up the short distance to Mycroft’s gaze. “What?”

“I am gay.”

“I know,” Greg rolled his eyes.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Do you? Because I am reasonably certain you implied that there was threat to our marriage contract due to Anthea’s womanly appeal.”

“Maybe.” He stuck his tongue into his cheek and carefully mulled over his next words. “But maybe you don’t need a live-in PA either.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh, though his was barely audible. “Anthea is not a ‘live-in PA’. She isn’t even… Well, now that I truly think about it, she is, in fact, a PA. Anthea is Security Services.”

“Security…”

“Services, yes. She does perform the duties of a personal assistant. But that is not why she is in my employ.”

“Then… Why?”

Mycroft tilted his head, considering. “Shall I remind you, that as per our contract, you cannot be compelled to testify against me.”

Greg snorted. What he knew of Mycroft’s work was likely the tip of the iceberg and would hardly be enough to justify charging him with anything.

“Nor, with the clearance you have been granted, are you allowed to do so.” He gently squeezed Greg’s wrists where he was still holding them. 

Greg’s brow furrowed; he’d never want to either. He nodded, “I know, yeah?”

“Nigel had a larger number of friends than I anticipated. They have taken it upon themselves to make my life more difficult than necessary.”

“Nigel?”

“The gentleman - well, I say gentleman - former Peer who decided it was reasonable to have you pistol-whipped.”

“Oh, that arsehole.”

Mycroft bit back a smile, releasing one of Greg’s wrists and tracing his fingers over the scar buried under Greg’s hair. It echoed the way he’d tentatively cleaned the laceration in the first place and Greg only just kept his eyes from fluttering shut. He couldn’t ignore the pleasing shiver that tracked down his spine. “I was forced to make a few concessions when it came to my own security. And while I was able to guide those decisions within civilised bounds, Anthea is, in a way, one of those reasonable concessions.”

“She isn’t just Security Services, she is the security,” Greg mumbled, pressing into Mycroft’s palm as it settled on the back of his neck.

Mycroft hummed.

“You picked her?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Because people think you’ve gone and hired yourself some sort of sexy PA.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Yes. That exactly. It sounds very much like something I would do.”

“Don’t laugh at me. She could kill me, couldn’t she?”

“She could.” Mycroft stopped laughing, but his smile was soft and affectionate. “But she wouldn’t.”

Greg wasn’t totally convinced. “You say that now…”

“I promise, she wouldn’t dare.” Mycroft shifted, swaying briefly towards Greg before twitching away.

Greg sighed and shook his head, suppressing another shiver as Mycroft’s hand slid from the back of his neck. “Because everyone always does everything you say.”

“Gregory, darling?”

“What?”

“Get in bed.”

Greg bit back a truly fond smile. “Of course, honey.”

Anthea was in the kitchen in the morning.

Greg eyed her cautiously as he poured his coffee, and with a reproachful sigh, he held up the cafetiere and gave it a small shake. “Coffee?” It was a peace offering of sorts.

She flashed what he could only hope was a real smile. “Please.” Not a morning person, apparently.

He pulled down a spare mug and filled it. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Both?” She asked hopefully.

He set the mug in front of her and forced a gracious expression. “Here.”

Her hand landed delicately on his forearm and he froze. “I understand,” she said simply. “And I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t necessary.”

Greg nodded. “Right.”

She picked up the coffee and inhaled deeply. “This smells excellent.”

The corner of his mouth pulled. It was very good coffee; he knew from experience. “You’ll keep him safe, yeah?”

She raised a brow as she took a sip. “I am quite good at my job.”

And it was settled. He may not like that she was needed, but he respected Anthea. He may not like that she was in their home from time to time, but he understood. And more than anything, he did believe that she was very good at her job.

Greg was good at his job too - something that was reinforced again and again by his colleagues, his juniors, and most of his seniors. He’d risen fast once he’d made Detective. He knew who to put on which team, and how to make the people around him do their best work. He never hitched his horse to the wrong wagon, and he always did his own grunt work. He wasn’t a pushover, but he was kind. He was in a settled marriage that didn’t hold the regular time commitments or distractions of some of his colleagues’. And beyond all that, it took a lot to rattle him. 

He’d always had a constitution suited to violent crimes, or so he’d been told. He was clever with problems, but he was even better with people. He could compartmentalise. He could leave things at work. Diligent but not overly ambitious. Affable. And yet, when investigations went bad on him, they didn’t seem to do it by halves. 

The middle of the night notification was clinging to him almost as much as the scene itself. And after working through the night, Greg felt a decade older. He was exhausted, but wound up tighter than a spring. Dead on his feet, but itching in his own skin. He couldn’t shake it. He couldn’t put it down. And he felt… Angry. When he really thought about it, it was fury. He was absolutely enraged.

It didn’t matter that there was nothing he could have done. He was called to a dead body, not to a kidnapping. It didn’t matter that it looked like it had happened hours, if not days prior to the call. Something about it had dug its claws into his heart and twisted. They’d processed the scene until well after the sun was up. They’d gone door to door, checked with missing persons, even run the details past Interpol. And nothing… 

Samples were with forensics, but they’d take time to process. A sketch had been sent round, but it’d take time for people to recognize it. Data had been requested, but it’d take time for the petitions to clear. Everything was going to take time. And it was infuriating! There was a kid dead, murdered - very clearly - and he had to wait. There was nothing left to do - not today anyway - other than stare at the photos and spin his wheels. It barely registered that it was only early afternoon. 

Sally kicked him out of the office around three, telling him to go home and sleep, to come back when he could see straight. And he seethed inside. It didn’t matter that she was right. He couldn’t think. He was sluggish and snappish, wholly unproductive. He was absolutely useless like this. And it left a slightly hollow feeling in his chest. So he packed up copies of the case file and dragged himself home.

He stuck his key in the lock and turned it on autopilot, only to bump into a still closed door. He frowned, twisted the key again, and heard the bolt slide free with a click. God, he was even too tired to unlock the damn door properly. Safely inside, he shouldered the door shut, turned deadbolt, and closed his eyes with a sigh. It was too early to sleep and he didn’t think he’d have any luck with it if he tried. Besides, he’d skipped breakfast… And lunch. Maybe he’d eat. Settle his stomach, settle his nerves, watch the news. Then maybe he’d get some sleep.

He made a sandwich, a fresh pot of coffee, and headed for the entertainment room, hands full of food and drink, the case file tucked under his arm. He pressed the door open with his hip, half backing into the room.

“My, aren’t you getting slow.”

“Jesus! F-” he dropped the mug. The ceramic shattered, sending shards and splashes in all directions. Greg stared.

“I didn’t even lock the door. Shall I leave a note next time? A herald to announce my presence?”

Greg sucked in a sharp breath. This was absolutely the last thing he needed. Footnoted at the bottom of his day’s to-do list. Under ‘get hit by bus’ and roughly next to ‘tooth extraction’ his brain had pencilled in ‘find Sherlock Holmes in your house.’ Not only that, but he was increasingly aware of the coffee soaking the leg of his trousers and likely steeping in the rug. There was broken ceramic literally everywhere. And he still had his sandwich in one hand, the case tucked under his arm. And he was staring at Sherlock. “What the absolute fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t bother to wait for Sherlock’s response. He just turned and picked his way out of the room, heading for the kitchen. He needed to clean up the shards before someone hurt themselves. The sandwich went on the kitchen table. The case file went into the freezer - see if the madman thought to rout it out from there. And he stormed back to the entertainment room, armed with paper towels and a dustpan.

Sherlock was still sprawled on the couch, watching him with interest. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

“Get out of my house, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed in mock thought. “Nope.”

“I swear to God!” He was cut off by his mobile ringing. “Lestrade.”

“Gregory, why do I have an active alert from your security team?”

“What?”

“There is an active alert - suspicious noises - at the house. Are you at home?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “And so is your shit of a brother.”

“Is he.” It wasn’t a question. Mycroft didn’t even sound terribly surprised.

Sherlock tilted his head from his seat on the sofa and grinned.

“Scared the shit outta me.” Greg admitted, frowning at Sherlock. “I broke a mug.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock gracefully pushed himself up and crossed the room, effortlessly avoiding the coffee and bits of porcelain. “Tell my brother that I believe I’ve made my point.”

Greg watched numbly as he headed out the door.

“And call me when you find yourself out of your depth with the Pimlico stabbing. Not that you aren’t already.”

The front door slammed.

Mycroft sighed from the other end of the line. “My apologies, Gregory. Had I known you’d be home early, I might have-”

“Kept him from being a twat?” He glanced down at the floor. “Fuck, there’s coffee everywhere. I have to… I should go.”

“Are you alright?”

Greg laughed. He was a lot of things right now, but alright was not on the radar. “Tell the security team that if they hear swearing, it’s just because I’ve gotten stabbed by a bit of coffee mug.”

“Do make every effort to avoid that. And please lock the door following my brother’s departure.”

“Yeah.” He snorted. They needed a door that automatically locked behind you. But then, he was pretty sure he’d end up locked out of the house one morning wearing nothing but his pants, in an unsuccessful attempt to retrieve the newspaper. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll bring dinner.”

“Ta.”

It took the better part of twenty minutes and three bandaids to clean up the mess. By the time he was finished, the room smelled like a horrible mix of cleaning solution and coffee. The whole thing had left him with a headache and Greg wasn’t terribly inclined to stay in there, trying to work. He grumbled to himself, retrieved his sandwich, a new mug of coffee, and the case file from the freezer, and headed to the home office.

He rarely worked in the home office. It had always struck him as more Mycroft’s territory than his own. If Mycroft was working from home, it wasn’t always something Greg should hear, so he usually left Mycroft to that room and tended to set up camp in the entertainment room. Except today, right now, he just felt… safer in the home office. He spread his case notes out over the desk, picked his way through his sandwich, and settled in to work.

It turned out to be a futile exercise. Greg rubbed furiously at his eyes. He had been staring at the same two pictures for over an hour. Something in the back of his mind kept screaming at him every time he tried to put them down, but for the life of him, he couldn’t put his finger on it. God, he was getting slow. Maybe Sherlock had been right, maybe he was out of his depth. No! No, he was tired. That was all. He’d get there. He’d figure it out. Some sick bastard was out there and he would make sure they couldn’t do anything like this again. He propped his cheek in his hand and blinked heavily at the photo again. He wasn’t useless…

_ Gregory. _

It was actually the most lovely sensation of someone carding their fingers through his hair. His mum had done that for him when he’d been small. That gentle, soothing motion and the ghost of a kiss to his temple.

“Gregory?”

A warm hand settled on his shoulder and he startled, snapping upright too quickly. He winced and cleared his throat. “Myc. Sorry. I-”

“It is late,” Mycroft cut him off gently, kindly. “I should have been home sooner, but unfortunately…” He sighed.

Greg scrubbed at his face and blinked down at the desk. Every photo seemed to stare back up at him. God, what a mess. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I have dinner.” Mycroft squeezed his shoulder. “Come join me?”

Greg nodded. He slid the papers and pictures together into a neat pile and shuffled them into the folder. Then, he followed Mycroft into the kitchen. “Smells good. What did you get?”

Mycroft pulled out plates and started opening boxes. “I know how fond you are of Il Boschetti.”

Oh. God, that place was his favorite. No wonder it smelled good. “I didn’t think they did take away.”

Mycroft smirked over his shoulder. “Not routinely, no.”

Oh. Some of the tightness in his chest eased. A faint warm sensation unspooled in his gut. The very small beginnings of a smile crept across Greg’s face. It was the first smile that had been there all day.

Greg would never be sure when exactly it had happened, but Mycroft arriving home at the end of a long day grew to be something of an anchor for him. Of course, there were days that Mycroft would be home before Greg even got a look in. There were days when Greg had been home long enough to make and eat dinner and get in bed before Mycroft was summoning his driver. And some days, they were both in the door within minutes of each other, sharing the nightly domestic routine as if they’d been married for years. Knowing that they were both there, in their home, safe under the same roof seemed to underline the day’s end. Admittedly, he slept better with Mycroft sharing the bed.

Every now and then, Greg slept a little too well with Mycroft sharing the bed. Not that he’d miss his alarm and oversleep, or snore - at least, not that Mycroft ever mentioned. More that waking up with morning wood like a teenager was nearly enough for Greg to set his alarms earlier than Mycroft’s. But then he’d have to justify the change, and he really, really didn’t want to have to do that. An extra ten minutes for a shower wank was enough to keep those mornings few and far between. And enough to save himself the embarrassment of explaining that he was having the odd erotic dream about his own husband.

Increasing Greg’s frustration was the fact that Mycroft frequently traveled for work. Greg knew it was necessary. Without any real detail, Greg knew Mycroft was genuinely the only person able to do whatever it was he was doing on these trips or they wouldn’t send him. That Anthea accompanied him suggested that the trips were not without their own dangers. 

Mycroft wasn’t a mere civil servant. He wasn’t a simple diplomat either. He would expedite his trips, abbreviating them in as much as possible. But they took time. They covered distance. They left Greg home, alone for long stretches at a time. Long stretches of time that Greg could only partially fill with work. He tended to work as late as possible, catch up on every slip of paperwork left in his tray, dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’. He’d clean the house from floor to ceiling. He’d wash every stitch of laundry. One particularly extended trip had Greg deep cleaning the oven and shampooing the carpets. Sometimes, he wondered what was more frustrating: waiting for Mycroft to get back or having him back.

This time, eleven days into a thirteen day trip, Greg was defrosting the freezer. He’d exhausted every other distraction he could think of, and had resorted to longer and longer jogs in the evening. Anything really to distract him from the very large, very empty house he was in. Alone.

His phone buzzed on the counter top and he swept his shoulder across his brow before squinting at the screen. Oh. It was from Myc.

_ I may have found an early escape. My flight is due in this evening. I hope to be home for dinner. _ _  
_ _ ~M _

Greg grinned.

_ Can’t wait. I’ll make you something nice. _ _  
_ _ ~G _

It turned out that Greg could wait. And he would have to wait. Mycroft’s flight was delayed. Then he missed the connection and was delayed even further. By midnight, Greg was holding out hope that Myc would make it home before the morning, but it was a slowly dimming hope. He left a plate of food in the fridge and a note on the table. And reluctantly, Greg went to bed. Alone. Again.

He had been dead asleep. Smack dab in the middle of a REM cycle. The sudden shift of the mattress and shuffle of the blankets roused him just enough that he could make sense. “Myc?”

“Hush. Go back to sleep.”

He reached out and a hand caught his, gently guiding it back to the bed. “Y’made it.”

“I did.”

“D’j’ya find th’food?”

There was a fond hum. Fingers in his hair. And he melted. “I did. Thank you.”

“Missed you,” he mumbled.

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I missed you as well. Go back to sleep.”

Greg did.

He woke again, in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t need to be up, and he didn’t need to go anywhere. He must have reached the end of the sleep cycle and his brain wanted to be sure that Mycroft was home. The arm wrapped around his waist and soft breathing that whispered down the back of his neck was enough evidence for his groggy mind. And Greg drifted back off to sleep.

Greg woke up alone.

It was disorienting. For a moment, he wasn’t sure Mycroft had made it home at all. Except Greg had slept more soundly than in the preceding days. The far side of the bed was slept in. A very specific damp that followed a shower drifted out the door of the ensuite. And if he listened carefully, Greg could almost convince himself he could hear Myc down in the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs, the smell of fresh coffee hit, and Greg smiled. Mycroft was definitely home.

Thank God.

“Morning.”

Mycroft raised a brow over the top of the newspaper. “Gregory, you cleaned.”

Greg grinned. “A bit.”

“A bit to the back of the freezer?”

Greg tried not to huff with embarrassment. He covered it up by pouring himself a mug of coffee and joining Mycroft at the table. “You’re up early for getting home so late.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and turned the page. “Jetlag.”

“Mmn.” Greg squinted at him. It looked like Mycroft was blushing, just the lightest dusting of pink on his cheeks. “How about I make you brunch then?”

“Thank you.”

After the longer trips, it seemed to take an extra day or two for them to fall back in sync. Some of it could be written off to jetlag. Some to the disrupted routine. Some to catching up on the backlog of work or issues running the house. The odd, unsteady week could be settled with an idle weekend. Particularly one when they stayed in. Together.

It was a lazy Sunday for them. The rain had forced them to stay inside, and Greg had somehow convinced Mycroft to watch a movie with him. The newspaper was scattered in segments on the table and draped over bits of the armchairs. Mugs and bowls from coffee and breakfast lay on the table, neither were inclined to tidy them up right now. In fact, not only had Greg wheedled a lie-in and movie out of Mycroft, he was currently stretched out on the sofa, sharing the large piece of furniture with his husband, a blanket draped over their collective legs in the middle.

“Honestly, Gregory. These films are-”

Greg laughed. “Not films. They’re movies. They’re not supposed to be heavy.”

“But the ventilation ducts?” Mycroft’s expression worked in irritation.

“Just wait until we talk about how this is a Christmas movie.”

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open, aghast. “It is not.”

The grin felt like it was splitting his face. “I’ll have you know that back in the day, all us sad, single bastards used to have a watch-along on Boxing day to make ourselves feel better for having to be in work, without ‘family obligations.’”

The look of horror on Mycroft’s face set Greg off giggling, and Mycroft shook his head. “Good Lord, we’ve been married nearly two years and now I discover these sordid details?”

“I got the better bargain,” Greg squeezed out between laughter.

The ringing broke through their conversation, and Greg turned towards the distant chair, his brows up.

“If that is work,” Mycroft grumbled. “I expect you to remind them that it is your day off.”

Greg swatted at his thigh as he got up. “You’re too polite. The Yard won’t respond to anything short of violent swears and tearful temper tantrums.” He scooped up his phone and glanced at the ID, surprised to see his brother’s name flashing on the screen. He raised a brow at Mycroft as he connected the call. “Hey Lia-”

“Greg.”

Greg froze at his brother’s tone. He had the horrible sensation of the bottom dropping out of his stomach. He knew that intonation. He’d used it a hundred times. Trying to be professionally distant. He recognised the rough, cracked sound of too much emotion and urgency and tried to pair it with his brother’s normally jovial timbre. And at the last possible moment, he shored himself up, bracing for some sort of hit. Any sign of amusement melted from Mycroft’s face as he watched Greg tense.

“I - Greg, the car…”

“W-what car?” Oh God. He heard the wet inhale over the line.

“They said the roads were wet…”

“What car!?”

“It was an accident. No one’s fault…”

“Fuck’s sake, what car?!”

“I,” his brother heaved a breath. “Greg. Mum…”

It was an oddly floating sensation. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He was pretty sure that was why the phone fell. He wasn’t really able to hear anything anyway. Maybe he was underwater. It was all muffled and blurred. He could hear water. Falling loudly. It would have made sense. And maybe it was tilting. Spinning. That’s probably why he felt so light headed. He probably should have hit the ground, but he didn’t. He landed in the armchair, just shy of center, half on the seat, with warm hands cupping his face. He blinked. Right. Mycroft. Right. He was there. That made sense.

“Gregory?”

He was there and he looked worried.

“Gregory. Breathe.”

He furrowed his brow and sucked in a breath. Oh. His head spun with the added oxygen and he nearly tipped right out of the chair. Thankfully, kept upright by the breadth of Mycroft’s chest and an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Breathing. That was strangely hard to do. His chest felt tight. He could distantly hear Mycroft talking, a low rumble of hushed, detached words. And the rain. He could still hear the rain against the windows. After a moment, Mycroft went silent, the thud of his mobile settling against the coffee table. It was another minute or two before Mycroft ducked into view again, gingerly tilting Greg’s chin up to meet his gaze.

Mycroft’s eyes filled with concern. “Gregory?”

“My brother was on the phone,” he offered, the words feeling odd on his tongue.

“He was.” Mycroft’s brows drew together. “I spoke to him there.”

“He… He said there was an accident.” Greg swallowed heavily. He couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why he was saying all of this out loud.

Mycroft gave a small nod.

“Mum?”

It was the smallest flattening at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. It was barely an expression. Not a single sound. And it clicked. It wasn’t a bad joke. It wasn’t a wrong number. It wasn’t a prank or a bad dream. He hadn’t heard wrong or misinterpreted. He inhaled. Oh God.

“Gregory?”

There was a full palm supporting the side of his face, warm and soft, and in spite of it, he felt the cold sweat prickle across the back of his neck. His stomach twisted. Fuck. He blinked, trying to swallow back the sensation, but it wouldn’t go. The lump that had lodged in his throat was suffocating and sickening all at once. And then he knew. “I’m gonna be sick.”

It was an ungainly scramble, unsteady and hurried as he threw himself from the chair and stumbled down the hall to the washroom. He was glad he made it. Barely. And the entire morning of coffee and breakfast, idle comfort and easy joy emptied into the toilet. He retched until his stomach was empty and he was left dry heaving.

Very slowly, he became aware of a hand rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades. Hushed murmurs of nonsense and sympathy drifted into his consciousness. And once it was clear that his gagging had stopped, he found himself being pulled, shivering into an embrace. And he did the only thing he felt he had left to do, which was sag into it and try to catch his breath.

Mycroft reached around him and flushed the toilet. “Come, Gregory. Let’s get you off of the floor.” It should have been awkward, but in a moment, he was standing. Mycroft led him back to the entertainment room. Brought him to the sofa and settled him there, draping a blanket over his shoulders, wrapping his arms securely around him.

Greg kept breathing. In and out. He felt the drag of Mycroft’s palm along his arm. Up and down. He closed his eyes and pressed his ear against Myc’s chest and listened to the steady heart beat there. They didn’t really do this. The cuddling. The physical affection. And Greg choked on a sigh. He twisted so he could see Mycroft’s face. He needed to know. “Myc?”

“Hmn?”

Fingers carded through his hair and he blinked. “My mum’s dead.”

Mycroft’s expression broke, his eyes filling. “I am so sorry.”

He blinked again and sniffed. His mum was gone... “I was just talking to her last week.” His voice cracked and Mycroft blurred. And that was it. She was gone. He would never see her again. He could never call her up, send an email, hug her… Then he was weeping. And that was just a little bit like falling. And now that he was falling, there was nothing left to slow him down. He buried his face against Mycroft’s shoulder and sobbed. 

His husband’s arms closed fiercely around him, rocking him ever so slightly as he cried himself out. Eventually, the gasping sobs gave way to silent tears, which inevitably became embarrassing hiccups. Then, wrung out and exhausted, he shuddered and returned to the problem of breathing. Mycroft was still there. Steady and calming. When he could blink without his eyes welling up and he thought he just might have the breath for it, he tested his voice. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You needn’t do anything right now.”

“But there’s… There’ll be…” His mind filled with to do lists. There’d be a burial. Or would they do a cremation? There’d have to be a service. Someone needed to ring his aunt. There was other family. They’d need to book tickets to get-

The hand on his arm slid into his hair, the fingers digging firmly against his scalp. “I’ll take care of it.”

Greg struggled to push himself upright, his body protesting stiffly at the change. “But, Myc. With, there’s…”

Mycroft shushed him. Stood. Then held out his hand. “Come with me.”

He stared confusedly at the hand. “What?”

“Come along,” he wiggled his fingers, waiting patiently for Greg to take his hand. Finally, Greg relented, sliding his palm into Mycroft’s. He was pulled up to his feet and steadied. “Here is what we will do. I will take you upstairs. You can have a shower. Then you’ll eat something. Then we’ll go back to bed.”

Greg started to shake his head, only to be stopped by Mycroft catching his face in his palm. His thumb swept gently along the crest of his cheek, wiping away fresh tears. Greg pressed his eyes shut as Mycroft gave his hand a squeeze.

“We’ll go back to bed. You don’t have to sleep, but I think you will regardless. Everything else will keep until the morning.”

He worked his jaw, taking a series of calming breaths. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is another day.”

“Ok.” Finally, Greg nodded. “Y-yeah.”

Mycroft’s fingers slid between his, and slowly, cautiously, Mycroft led him up the stairs to their ensuite. He started the shower. He laid out a towel and pajamas. And when he returned, nearly half an hour later, to find Greg wrapped in his towel, staring absently at the sink, Mycroft finished drying him. He helped him into fresh pajamas. He took his hand again and led him into the bedroom. He waited patiently for Greg to drink the fruit smoothie he’d made. Then he propped himself against the headboard and opened his arms.

Greg crumpled wearily into the embrace. He still didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. “Myc?”

The fingers stroking through his still damp hair didn’t pause. “Yes?”

“Don’t leave, yeah?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

After some unnameable amount of time, Mycroft was proven correct - Greg fell asleep. His eyes were heavy and puffy from crying, and they finally slid closed in a way that he wasn’t bothered to open them. And the occasional streaks of tears stopped falling. And he listened to Mycroft breathe and his own unevenness eased. And before he was fully and completely asleep, he heard Mycroft whisper, “I have you; you’re safe.” And he definitely felt the gentle brush of lips along his hairline.

The morning came with dull, overcast skies and a thumping headache. But it was made slightly better that Mycroft had stayed, his hand still folded around Greg’s while he’d slept. It was another day. And when Greg was ready, Mycroft took his hand and led the way - through the arrangements, through the travel, through the gauntlet of family and sympathisers, through the claims and the plans and the allocations. And only when they finally returned, did Mycroft release his hand to wrap Greg in his arms and let him fall asleep against his chest. In their bed. At home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotional insecurity  
> Description of violent crimes investigations  
> Off screen death of a family member


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any content warnings for the chapters will be in end notes of the chapter (if people are worried and would like to skip to those)

Greg sighed and massaged his forehead, thinking vaguely that he might be getting too old for this kind of rubbish. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised he needed the time off that he and Mycroft had coming up. After nearly two years married, they had yet to take a honeymoon or a proper holiday. And if he was feeling it, Mycroft must really, really need the break as well. 

He winced as Erikson threw himself between the quarreling partners. Again. “Donovan, you better get in there.” Watching the half-verbal, half-physical confrontation left him with mixed emotions. Sad that any marriage devolved into legal definitions of altercation. Smug, maybe. He and Mycroft infrequently disagreed and rarely fought. And when they did, it was nothing like this. The thought of Mycroft laying hands on him… Greg shifted where he stood. Well, it wasn’t something that would ever happen out of anger. If he could make it happen out of… not anger?

“Do I have to?”

“Not if you don’t care about Erikson.” He sucked in a breath as the young constable only just managed to duck a swing. At least he was agile. “He’s about to get decked.”

“Isn’t that your job, Sir?”

Greg raised a brow. “Look, I could jump in. But then you’d have to save the pair of us in another five minutes. Why don’t you just save us all some time, and sort it out now.” Greg caught the flash of movement up the street and bit back a groan. “Or you deal with  _ him _ , and  _ I’ll _ go get socked.”

Donovan followed his gesture and rolled her eyes. “Why is he here?”

“God knows. It’s not like this is his sort of dust up. But it’s your choice, Donovan. Two nutters or one.” He grinned as Donovan shook her head and stormed towards the fray. Eminently pragmatic. Most people would rather get punched in the nose than deal with Sherlock. Right… Sherlock. He took a fortifying breath and turned just in time for Sherlock to draw up two inches too close to his face. “Oi. Steady.”

“Where is he?”

Greg pulled back slightly at the aggressive demand. “Where’s who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. He’s avoiding me. Now where is he?”

“Pretend I am dumb,” Greg offered flatly, crossing his arms defensively. On a good day, he probably was dumb compared to Sherlock anyway. And he’d grown to find that blunt honesty seened to cut through the worst of Sherlock’s condescension. “Who are you on about?”

“Who?” Sherlock practically hissed at him. “Mycroft! Who else would I come to you about?”

He held up his hands. If Mycroft needed ten minutes away from his brother, Greg wasn’t one to argue. “Do ya think he might just be in a meeting?”

“In a meeting?” Sherlock scoffed, flashing the screen of his mobile at Greg. It wasn’t visible long enough for him to even get half a glance. “I have texted sixteen times in the last four hours and phoned seven times in the past twenty minutes. He hasn’t responded to his emails, before you offer that preposterous idea.”

“Sherlock. Mate.” Greg took a sharp step back at the vicious glare he received. “Twenty minutes doesn’t even touch half of his meetings. Maybe give him some time.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You are a moron, Lestrade. Mycroft has answered every phone call I’ve deigned to bother with, because it gives him some semblance of attention. And you think he’s just ‘too busy’ to pick up the phone?”

“And Anthea?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head. “That assassin? No. I have told him again and again that the security was not tight enough.”

“I know he doesn’t tend to text, but he didn’t text back?” It felt like a stretch. Mycroft hated to text. He always phoned when he could, when it was secure, and when there was something that required more than three sentences to sort.

“He sent a single text. Which made less sense than you.”

“A text?” That… That didn’t sound good. Something twisted in his stomach. 

“He didn’t even bother to sign it. He always signs his texts.”

“What did it say?”

“His signature?”

“The text, Sherlock.” Greg bit out impatiently. “What did the text say?”

“I need to speak with you.”

“What?” Greg blanched, a wave of insecure apprehension welling in his chest.

Sherlock raised a brow condescendingly. “It said, ‘I need to speak with you.’ And then he didn’t sign it.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Shit.” Greg pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang out and went to voicemail. “Voicemail.” He hadn’t gotten Mycroft’s voicemail since Anthea had entered his employ. That… “But he always answers my calls.”

“I told you, he is not answering.”

“But Anthea answers if he’s in a meeting.” He called again, shifting nervously as it clicked into voicemail.

“And she is not. What does that tell you?”

Greg blinked. It told him that there were air raid sirens alarming in his head. It told him that there was something horribly, terribly wrong. It told him that Sherlock, for all his annoying and abrasive traits, was right that Mycroft wasn’t where he should be. “Where is he?”

It wasn’t a smile. It wasn’t even a smirk. But Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “You don’t know.”

“No, I bloody don’t!” Greg stared at his silent mobile.  _ I need to speak with you. _ “I have to go. Fuck.” He fired off a short text.

_ Call me right now!  
_ _ ~G _

“Donovan!” He turned to find Donovan with a fist full of shirt from both of the argumentative partners. She was terrifying when she needed to be.

“Boss?”

“I need to…” He made a series of useless and incoherent hand gestures.

She released one of the shirts for Erikson to take over and with one glance, waved him off. “Go. I’ll call with problems.”

He gave a nod and headed for his car, Sherlock close on his heels. “That’s the only thing you’ve heard from him, that text?”

“I’ve already told you-”

Greg rounded on him, his fear and anger intermixing with enough potency to ignite his temper. “Shut up! Just shut up, Sherlock! Christ! I’m going to go find him. You can help, or you can get the hell out of my way!”

This time Sherlock did smirk. “Of course.”

“Right,” he chewed on his lower lip. “He’s in trouble. We can agree on that. So where…”

“He is not in his office.”

“How-”

Sherlock grinned. “I’ve been there looking for him.”

“Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Ok. Not at his office. Then…”  _ I need to speak with you. _

“The Club?” Sherlock offered.

“Home,” Greg breathed.

Sherlock frowned. “Split up? Cover more ground.”

“Fine.” Greg pulled open the door of his car, sliding in. “Call me if you find anything.”

“I’ll text.” Sherlock shoved the door closed and gave a wave, heading for the main road.

For the briefest moment, Greg considered following after Sherlock, blasting past him with the horn in aggravation. But Myc was… Something. And it was a bad something. Greg knew things were amiss; he could feel it in his bones. Myc wouldn’t go off grid without warning. He wouldn’t ignore a call from Greg. Hell, Anthea wouldn’t ignore a call from Greg. And more than anything, Myc wouldn’t… He wouldn’t use that phrase lightly. 

_ I need to speak with you.  _

Even if Sherlock didn’t know what it meant - not that Greg knew exactly what it meant either, other than something was wrong - at least he knew that. And every time they’d had one of those conversations it had been at home. Myc would be at home. He had to be. Greg started the car and covered the distance back to the house at a speed that could barely be considered legal.

Out of caution or paranoia, Greg parked up the street and let himself in through the gate. The house looked quiet. No broken windows or open doors. No alarms. No lights. No sign of one of Mycroft’s drivers or cars, though his personal car was in the garage where it belonged. It was all very calm, very normal, and it made Greg even more uneasy. He crossed to the door and paused, holding his breath, straining to hear anything from inside. But there was nothing to hear. The house sat silent, the ambient noises of the city carrying on as usual.

Right. Greg nodded to himself. Right. He would open the door and there would be nothing there. Mycroft was probably in his office in Whitehall. Sherlock was just winding him up as per usual. He would open the door, disarm the security, have a quick walk through, Mycroft would ring him back before Greg had even checked the first floor. Myc was in a meeting. Anthea was in there with him. It was important. And they would call in a moment. And there was absolutely nothing wrong. Greg was getting worked up over nothing.

_ I need to speak with you.  _

The knob turned in his hand and Greg felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He hadn’t unlocked it. His keys were still in his pocket. The front door was never left unlocked. And when it eased open, silent on its hinges, no security alarm sounded, not even the chime of an opened door. Shit. He didn’t have his gun; it was locked in his office back at the Yard. He had a back-up… Upstairs. In a safe. Tucked into the back of his wardrobe. Neither were particularly useful right now.

He slipped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. Front entry was empty. Everything still and quiet… And not quite right. He ran through the rooms in his head: dining room, entertainment room, kitchen, home office, loo. Then upstairs: master suite, home gym, drawing room. Top floor: guest room, bathroom, storage. He didn’t want to think about the basement. Back garden. Garage. He could cover the entire house in a matter of minutes. And… And… It would be empty, he told himself.

He crept into the front hall and froze.

Legs. It was just a pair of legs. Not moving. Shit.

With a rapid glance in each direction, he hurried to the end of the front hall, stopping just shy of the kitchen. “Shit,” he hissed and dropped to his knees next to her. “Anthea?” When she didn’t move, he searched desperately for a pulse, sighing in relief when he found it strong and steady. Right. Ok. Right. “Anthea?” She didn’t respond. Fuck. He stripped off his jacket and folded it into a pillow, sliding it gingerly between her cheek and the floor.

If Anthea was here, so was Myc. But if she was  _ here _ here, Myc was without protection. Without security. Oh God. No. Wait. Think. He… He had a panic button. He had more than one! He dug around for his keys and pressed the button he kept on the keyring. Right. He tucked the whole lot of them under Anthea’s hand. She was as safe as she could be, but Myc was still… 

The home office. He had to be there. Greg could hear… Not voices. Maybe… He was hoping so hard that he couldn’t tell whether or not he was imagining things.

He crept down the hall towards the door. It was cracked open a sliver, but not wide enough to see any significant portion of the room. And it was quiet. Greg took a deep breath and slipped into the room.

“Myc!”

It was a mistake. He knew it was a mistake the second he met Myc’s eyes. Shit. It was painted there across Mycroft’s pained expression, the obvious dishevelment, the bruising dashed along his cheek bone, the split lip and neat line of blood tracking down his chin, the way he was sitting in that bloody chair looking like hell warmed over. Shit, shit, shit. Even more than the pain though was the sudden well of fear in his eyes. Oh God. Greg hardly noticed his feet moving until he was halfway to the desk.

“That’s quite far enough, don’t you think?”

He froze, his heart lodging somewhere high in his throat. Gun. Fucking bollocks. He hadn’t even noticed the third person in the room. Stupid. And he had a gun that was now pressed firmly to the base of Mycroft’s skull. God, no. Greg felt the blood draining from his face, and slowly, carefully, he held up his hands. “Yeah… Ok…”

“Close the door.”

Greg swallowed. He didn’t dare take his eyes off of the man standing behind Myc. He shuffled backwards, pushing the door shut with an open palm. The latch clicked loudly.

“Now pockets.” The man gestured towards the desk. “Everything out.”

Slowly, he told himself. Slow and steady. Deliberate movements. He set his wallet on the desk first, then his mobile and warrant card, then his cuffs - Christ, he had to be carrying those and not a truncheon.

“Is that all of it?”

Greg nodded. He turned out his pockets to be clear. He wasn’t going to risk Mycroft’s life to keep something stupid in his pocket. His eyes flitted to Mycroft. “Alright, Myc?” It was barely a whisper, but it echoed loudly in the office.

“Shut up!”

“Fine, Gregory.”

“I said shut up!”

Greg winced as the butt of the gun cracked across the back of Mycroft’s head. The sound alone made Greg’s stomach twist. “Don’t! Just…” Greg watched Mycroft straighten in the chair, recollect himself in spite of the pain. “Don’t…”

The man reached around Mycroft and plucked the handcuffs from the desk. “Arms.” Greg couldn’t help the soft sound of protest that escaped him. When Mycroft didn’t immediately acquiesce, the barrel of the gun was dug into the soft skin behind his jaw. “Holmes, your arms. Now.”

How long did the security take to respond to a panic button? And dear God, why had he never bothered to ask? Mycroft was stoically trying for a stiff upper lip, but having his arms cuffed behind the chair was obviously painful. And Greg was sure they were on tighter than necessary.

“There.” The man roughly shoved Mycroft’s head down. “Isn’t this more pleasant.”

The gun swung up. And for the first time in his life, Greg found himself glad to be staring down the muzzle of a loaded pistol. If it was pointed at him, it couldn’t be focused on Myc. He steadied himself, steeling his spine as the man flipped open Greg’s warrant card.

“Lestrade.”

Greg caught Mycroft’s worried gaze, trying to convey reassurance with just a glance. They were going to be fine. He’d figure something out. Security was on its way. They just needed to stay calm. Bide their time.

“You’re the one that made trouble for my brother.”

Greg flashed a grin that he wasn't feeling. "I tend to do that to a lot of people. You'll have to be more specific."

"You sent him to prison."

He snorted. "Tend to do that too. S'its in the job description and all."

The man's eyes narrowed and he flicked the gun up in a casual gesture. "Hands on the back of your head."

Greg rolled his eyes and brought his hands up, sliding his thumb along his watch strap. It was the smallest relief, giving him an excuse to set off his second panic button. For the longest time, he'd thought having the two was overkill, Mycroft planning for the impossible worst case scenario. But with his keys elsewhere, he felt better knowing that he had one hidden in his watch. Still no idea how it worked though. Was triggering the second likely to bring more security? Or was it like mashing an elevator button - gives you something to do without making one lick of a difference?

The man passed behind him, and Greg had a moment of panic when he could no longer track the gun. But Mycroft could see it. He was following with all the wariness of pursuing a venomous snake - like it might bite at any moment. He wasn't wrong with that assessment, and his face showed a flicker of fear when he could no longer see it. Greg could feel it then, pressing against the base of his spine. And he could pinpoint the exact second that Myc realised it.

The man started frisking him. Arms and shoulders first. "Do you arrest many of the peerage?"

Right, so it was back to that. "Oh, that twat's your brother?" He grunted as a fist slammed into his left flank. Still a sore subject then.

Mycroft stifled an objectionable noise as the pat-down continued. His sides, his legs, his ankles, his waistband. "You know what they were saying, Holmes? Obviously not where you could hear it. But in the Club and the like?"

Mycroft grit his teeth, clearly not amused by the direction of the conversation. "Do tell, Fergus."

The hand traveled across his chest, and Greg tried not to waver when Mycroft's expression went dark. "That you had found yourself a lovely bit of rough to warm your bed at night."

"Is that what they say?" Mycroft was far from the bored tone he affected. Greg was also incredibly clear that he wasn't asking a question.

"I'm the smallest bit impressed," Fergus pitched his voice low; it made Greg's skin crawl. "We never thought anyone would get to see the soft, exposed underbelly of Mr. Holmes."

“Why?” Greg growled. “Do you think I’d let him fuck me with the suit still on?” Mycroft’s brow shot up and Greg grinned, full of bravado. “Actually, now that you mention it, next time leave the suit on.” 

Fergus grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, craning his neck back at a sharp angle. Greg couldn’t hide the flinch and he hissed angrily. Fergus jabbed the gun against his neck. “Shut. Up.”

“If you are quite done accosting my husband, there must be a reason you’re here.”

The warning note in Mycroft’s voice must have upset Fergus, because the hand dropped from his hair and Greg found himself in an awkward and painfully effective chokehold. “He’s pretty, Mycroft, I’ll give you that. But he’s not all that clever.” 

The forearm around his neck shifted and Greg scrambled to keep the pressure off of his airway. “Oi,” he wheezed. “You’re not really my type either.”

“The question is, Mycroft, shall I just kill you now?”

No. A cold sensation flooded through him and Greg dug his fingers into the arm as the gun turned back on Mycroft. He grunted and pulled. “Do you have any idea the flaming shit storm that will rain down on you if you hurt him?”

“Or,” the gun pressed into the side of his cheek. “I kill him. And you get to watch.”

Yes, good. Gun not on Mycroft. Where the fuck was security? Greg felt his chest heave. He was starting to panic. Calm, breathe, calm.

“No!”

Greg nearly groaned as the gun flitted back. Shut up, Myc. Jesus!

“Or. I suppose the easiest solution is to simply kill you both.”

Oh neat; Fergus decided to press the gun into his ear.

“Make it look like a lovers quarrel. They do seem to be all the rage.”

Mycroft’s face did something rapid and complicated, and Greg watched what he thought might be the last flicker of hope die in his eyes. Fuck. Myc was convinced Fergus was going to kill them. Now. 

“Just need to decide which one of you I hate more.”

Greg snarled. “Should never have sent your brother to jail. Should have just punched him in the dick and handcuffed him, naked, to the railing on the front steps of Buckingham.”

“Cute. He is vulgar, isn’t he, Mycroft?”

Good. There. Greg was more than happy to stomp on the bastards foot if it won him all the hatred. But with a rough shove against his temple, Fergus swung the barrel of the gun back towards Mycroft.

“I think it’s fair to let him watch you die first.”

No! NO! Greg squirmed, pulling to free himself. The arm around his neck was immoveable, and it tugged him into an uncomfortable arch of his back. Mycroft’s expression shuttered and he straightened in the chair. His mouth pressed into a thin, cold smile, and he looked, deliberately to the door. "It's a shame you talk so much, Fergus. I believe that would be my security team now."

It was a bluff. Greg could see it. Mycroft didn't have many tells, but he was lying. Quite convincingly. But it wouldn't buy them much time. Or any, really. Greg rapidly gauged Fergus’ height and took a deep breath. This was going to hurt. Mycroft shook his head minutely, but they were out of time and out of options. And Greg couldn’t stand to let this bastard hurt Mycroft any further. He saw Mycroft’s eyes go wide. He flashed a half smile and mouthed a very clear, ‘I love you.’ Then he moved.

It was planned, as much as anything like it could be. He dropped his weight and threw his hip back, knocking Fergus off balance, and as he leaned in to keep hold of Greg’s neck, Greg threw one hand out towards the gun and his head back, hard. The hollow, dull thunk could have been from Fergus’ nose breaking, or from Greg’s own thick skull. Either way, he briefly wondered how the Weegies were able to do this in every pub brawl he’d tried to break up in his early constable days. The loud report of the gun sent his head spinning with the tinnitus.

The unexpected Glasgow kiss was shockingly effective. Fergus dropped to his knees, blood pouring from his nose. Greg didn’t hesitate. He spun with a right hook primed and ready, making devastating contact with Fergus’ jaw. And he was out, sprawled on the floor of the home office, bleeding on Mycroft’s rug.

“Myc,” he shook out his fist as he crossed behind the desk. “Christ, are you ok?” He knelt at Mycroft’s side, reaching up to cup his face between his palms.

Mycroft blinked at him for a moment. “Gregory?”

“Hey.” He could feel the soft smile on his face. “Alright?”

“You…” Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “Why on earth did you do that?”

Greg huffed out a laugh and tugged a chain from around his neck, freeing the spare handcuff key. “Hafta make myself useful somehow.”

“Useful?” Mycroft’s voice cracked over the word. “Please stop making yourself useful in that manner.”

“Idiot,” Greg mumbled as he carefully unlocked the cuffs and crammed them back into his pocket. Mycroft groaned as his shoulders rolled forward, and Greg caught him just before he slid clean off of the chair. “Hey, hey. You’re ok.” Then, it just made more sense to be on the floor.

It should have been strange. Mycroft had always seemed so much taller, so composed and formidable. But he folded himself to fit neatly under Greg’s chin, and Greg’s arms fit around him perfectly. Greg closed his eyes and buried his lips against the crown of Mycroft’s head, listening to his husband breathe. “You’re alright,” he repeated, trying to convince himself as much as anything else. “You’re ok.”

The moment of quiet peace shattered with security bursting through the door. The sight of more guns had Greg’s heart jumping into the back of his throat, and he tightened his arms around Mycroft. It was only a semi-rational response, panic borne of stress and adrenaline. But he still needed a few measured breaths to calm down. Finally, he relaxed his hold and murmured, “You really should have a chat with them about their response time.”

Mycroft laughed like it had been startled out of him. “I should.” Then he shifted, maybe realising for the first time that they were on the floor.

It hurt, quite literally, though on some level, Greg assumed it was also something deeper, as he shifted off of his knees and pushed to stand. He held out both hands, pulling Mycroft to his feet. “Alright?”

A complicated combination of emotions moved across his face too quickly for Greg to catalogue. He nodded. “Are you?”

“Bit of a headache, but I’ll be fine.” It was a shaky smile, but he offered it nonetheless. “Two panic buttons. And I didn’t bother to ask how they worked.”

“They tend to work better than smashing your skull into things.”

“I dunno,” Greg resorted to humor to ease the tightness in his chest. “I think I need better evidence of that.”

Mycroft’s eyes went wide, “Absolutely not.” He shook his head as if to clear it and took a fortifying breath. “You should go… Sit. I will…” He waved a hand at the security team, occupied with hauling Fergus off of the floor.

Greg grabbed Mycroft’s wrist before he realized he’d reached out. “I…” He swallowed back a number of odd things that made no sense, not even in his own head. “I uh…”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft eased himself free of Greg’s grasp then carefully took his hand and slotted their fingers together. “Perhaps we should both sit.”

Greg closed his eyes and nodded. Yeah. That was a good idea. Together. Not here, not in the office. Mycroft must have been of the same mind, because a moment later, Greg found himself on the couch, in the entertainment room.

“Can I get you anything?”

Greg blinked up at Mycroft, confused. Get him anything? As if there was something outside of this room he could possibly need. He tugged on their still-joined hands, pulling Mycroft down on the couch beside him. “No,” he croaked, releasing Mycroft’s hand to wrap both arms around his shoulders. “No, this is… good.”

Mycroft shifted, finding a more comfortable position and half-manhandling Greg into the corner of the sofa, propped against the arm and throw pillows. Cosy. Supported. Then he sighed out most of his tension. “Good,” he echoed. “How is your head?”

Greg mind took the opportunity to remind him of the blow Mycroft had received from the gun, and he shuddered. “How’s yours?”

“Quite fine.” Mycroft was lying again. It brought a wry smile to Greg’s face. “How is your neck?”

“My voice might be funny tomorrow. But it’s more fine than your head. How’s your face?”

“My face?” Mycroft asked, affronted.

“You bruise like a peach,” Greg muttered. 

“Fergus, amongst his many talents,” Mycroft began scathingly. “Does not possess the ability to strike a person to any real effect.”

“Tell that to my left kidney.” Greg had been going for levity, but missed by a mile. Mycroft stiffened, smoothing a palm down Greg’s side. “Besides, where did you get off bluffing like that?”

“How did you know I was bluffing?”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m quite the accomplished liar.”

Greg grinned. “Sure you are.” They fell silent, the commotion on the other side of the house a distant noise. Greg closed his eyes and took stock. His head was pounding out a dull ache, but he’d certainly had worse. His neck felt a bit bruised, but the muscles in his back were probably slightly more worse for the wear. His right knuckles stung in a way that made him suspect he’d split the skin, but that actually made him feel better. “Myc?”

“Hm?”

“Is this why Sherlock broke in a few weeks back?”

Mycroft groaned. “He is going to be insufferable.”

“He already is.”

Greg glanced towards the door. Anthea was pressing an ice pack to the side of her head with one hand; she had Greg’s keys in the other. Greg grinned. “True. How’s your head?”

She sat in one of the armchairs with a wince and tossed Greg his keys. “We all have our burdens to bear. Two panic buttons. Seemingly, you were correct, Sir. We did need them both.”

“I was wrong.” Mycroft heaved a sigh. “We’ll go to four tomorrow.”

“Four?” Greg frowned at Mycroft’s upturned face. “Where the bloody hell am I supposed to hide four of those?”

“I’m sure we can come up with something,” Mycroft offered with a wry smile. “You’ve already proven yourself so terribly resourceful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon typical violence


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this had to be split again... it was too unwieldy otherwise. I promise... there's only one more after this.  
> Any content warnings for the chapters will be in end notes of the chapter (if people are worried and would like to skip to those)

Greg had been unsettled. The issue with Fergus had been expediently and rather quietly corrected, the whole thing going the same way as Nigel. Disappeared into a prison, probably. The rug in the home office had been removed for cleaning. Sherlock had been insufferable, as expected; loudly pointing out all of the holes in security he’d pointed out before - at least that’s what Greg understood of it all. Anthea had become very, very present again. And Mycroft had been incredibly serious about the four panic buttons.

But even as the dust settled and things were wrapped up, Greg was shaken. He found himself checking the locks multiple times at night. He winced every time the security system chimed. He held his breath as he opened the door coming home from work. He wouldn’t step foot in the office. He actually couldn’t. He didn’t understand how Mycroft could still sit in there at all, let alone work productively.

And then there was Mycroft.

Greg couldn’t exactly be sure what had happened, what exactly had shifted between them. They’d gone to bed that night, exhausted and sore, but within touching distance. In the morning, it was as though Mycroft couldn’t get far enough away. He was up and out before Greg had finished his shower. He was gone until the wee hours of the morning. Greg was only sure he’d come to bed at all because sometime around three, Mycroft had a nightmare. Not that he would admit it, but Greg had enough experience with his own to know one when he saw one.

Mycroft didn’t want to talk about it.

Mycroft didn’t want to talk about anything really. And more than that, Greg started to feel a bit like Mycroft didn’t want to see him either. And that hurt. A lot. Greg felt cut adrift. They had tickets booked and a hotel reservation in two weeks, and Mycroft wouldn’t look him in the eye. If nothing else, Greg had finally told him… He’d said it, he’d admitted it, given those three little words and he’d nearly brained himself to prove it, and it had passed unacknowledged. Maybe unwanted. Didn’t that just twist the knife a little deeper.

Greg poured coffee hesitantly into his travel mug. “Hey, Myc?”

Mycroft didn’t look up from his newspaper, but hummed an acknowledgement of Greg’s question.

“I um… I was going to make something nice for dinner. Tonight. If-if you’re going to be home…”

“I am, unfortunately, going out of the country.”

Greg’s head snapped up from where he was fitting the lid on his mug. “What?”

“I have been called away. I will likely be in Japan for the week.” He still hadn’t looked up from the paper.

“You’re leaving?” Greg felt his stomach twist. It was bad enough that they weren’t really spending time together. But not to have Mycroft at home every night? Not to have him in the country?

“It cannot be avoided. Believe me, I have tried.”

Lie. He was lying. Oh God, he wanted to go. Greg took a slow, measured breath. “I… Right. Ok.”

“The security has been upgraded. You will be quite safe here.”

Yeah… Just like they’d been safe before. Greg swirled the coffee around in the cup for a moment, not willing to drink it yet. “And… Will you be safe? In Japan?”

The first flicker of emotion creased Mycroft’s brow, but it was gone before Greg could parse the meaning. “Anthea will be with me. And further precautions have been taken for this excursion.”

“Oh.” That didn’t really make him feel any better. His stomach sank. “Ok… Good. I think.”

Mycroft folded his hands on top of the newspaper and gave Greg a long, assessing look. “Would you have me stay home from now on, Gregory? Cease work? Remain indoors at all times?”

“What?” Greg startled. “No. No… Of course not. I never said that.”

“Need I remind you of the number of altercations you have experienced in your line of work? The number of times you’ve needed to visit the Emergency Department for x-rays or sutures?”

Greg actually took a step back at the sharp tone, finding the counter edge with his hand and his hip. “No… I… I know.”

Mycroft cocked a brow. “Are you aware of the maxim, ‘People in glass houses’?”

“I…” Greg swallowed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Mycroft to work. Just that… Japan? Right now? He knew, he _knew_ how important Mycroft was. And how much Mycroft enjoyed his work. And… Was it so bad that he just wanted to see his husband? “Of course I know it. I just… Didn’t realise you had a trip. ‘S’all.” He forced himself to flick open the mug and take a sip of the coffee. “Are we still… That only leaves a week before our trip. Is that…”

“It is plenty of time,” Mycroft said flatly.

“Right. I’m…” He almost said that he was looking forward to it, but the expression on Mycroft’s face was oddly unnerving and then Greg wondered if he really was looking forward to it at all. “I’m gonna be late for work,” he finished reluctantly. “Have a good trip, yeah?”

“Gregory, don’t forget your breakfast.” Mycroft nodded to the toast that had long since popped up from the toaster.

“Oh, yeah.” He wrapped it in a paper towel and wondered if Mycroft knew that he felt too sick to eat it. “Thanks.” He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. What was left to say? And the look he was getting from Mycroft was too cold to even… hug? Or like, pat his arm? They’d never really established a physical affection when leaving for work. Greg hesitated at the kitchen door. “Bye, Myc…”

“Of course.” His eyes were back on the newspaper.

Greg bit his lip and nodded slowly, patting the door-frame with his palm. Right. He’d been… dismissed then.

It was a less than stellar start to his week, and it only got worse from there. Work was busy. And as much as Greg wanted the distraction, it was the bad kind of busy. The kind that kept him at work until well after the shops and any respectable takeaway had closed, that kept his brain going for all the wrong reasons, that left him even more unsettled than he’d been before Mycroft had jetted off to Japan.

With the difference in time zones, Mycroft was heavily ensconced in meetings by the time Greg was dragging himself out of bed. And Greg was neck deep in procedural investigations at the end of Mycroft’s day. There had been the odd text message. A word or two about a meeting or a person, a sentence about the weather. Nothing of substance. Greg had sent a picture of his Costa coffee and somewhat soggy sausage roll one morning with a quick _‘I miss my usual brekkie.’_ It was a poor attempt to say that he missed Mycroft, but it had gone unanswered anyway.

Greg wasn’t sleeping either, not really resting by any means. He dragged himself home, ate things that vaguely resembled food, triple checked the locks, kept the office door firmly shut, and laid down in the dark for an immeasurable amount of time, staring at the ceiling. Small sounds made him jump. Carlights casting moving shadows had him seeing things. And he felt cold all the time. Invariably, at some point, sleep would claim him, only to be woken by a nightmare or the blaring of his alarm. He never felt any less weary for it.

Four days after Mycroft left, Sherlock broke into Greg’s office at the Met. From what Greg could gather, it was just to prove a point about security. Whether or not that point was made by Sherlock spending the night in lockup was hard to say. Greg had been at home. The Met wasn’t made to be impenetrable. But Sherlock had gotten nicked anyway. Mycroft had sent a text requesting that Greg facilitate his release, so Greg sighed and called in as many favors as he could to get it sorted by midday. The night security was unimpressed. Hell, Greg was unimpressed. And he gave Sherlock a long and colorful bollocking that could be heard through the walls of his office and down to the breakroom. Sherlock was also unimpressed. And unmoved. And he made his disdain very clear as he sulked away. Sally had come by his office five minutes later with a fresh coffee and donut, and Greg was grateful for as long as it took her to explain that there was a body and they needed to go.

Six days after Mycroft left, Greg had the horrible pleasure of informing a family of the death of their loved one. The investigation wasn’t terribly involved. Open and shut really. But the sobbing husband, repeating over and over how he should have just told him that he loved him… Greg had gotten home very, very late, consumed an ill-advised amount of red wine, and curled up in an otherwise empty bed. If he was a bit weepy after such an emotionally taxing day, surely it had to do with the alcohol and not the vastly vacant other half of the mattress or his obviously absent husband.

He didn’t wake up when Mycroft got home. He didn’t wake up when Mycroft finally came to bed. But he certainly woke when Mycroft shouted his name into the witching darkness of their room.

Greg bolted up in a panic, still wine woozy and half asleep. “Myc?!”

Mycroft was there - Greg checked twice to be sure - perched on the edge of the bed in his pajamas, breathing unsteadily.

“Myc?” Greg asked again, reaching across the space to touch his back.

Mycroft jumped, but immediately tried to steady himself, straightening his posture, holding his breath. “It’s fine. Go back to sleep, Gregory.”

“I…” Greg squinted in the dark, setting his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. His eyes were still puffy and gritty from what very much wasn’t crying himself to sleep, and the room was too dim to make out much more than Mycroft’s silhouette. “Are you-”

“I’m fine.”

Greg’s hand was lifted from Mycroft’s body and placed on the bed. Greg felt burning pressure behind his already exhausted eyes. He needed more than one steadying breath to keep from sniffling. “I…”

“Go back to sleep. I am sorry for disturbing you.”

Greg eased himself stiffly back down onto the mattress, watching Mycroft’s still frame in the dark. The longer he watched, the harder it became to see. And the room started swimming through the unshed tears collecting in his eyes. It was all too much. He was too tired, too hurt, too drunk for all of it. So he curled up on his side, dragged the comforter up around his ear, and did his best to pretend he was asleep. It didn’t matter if he cried more as long as it was quiet. 

He couldn’t be sure how long it was. Maybe five minutes, maybe fifty. Mycroft reluctantly settled back into the bed, gingerly slid under what remained of the comforter, and found a comfortable position in the vast sea of space. Greg stared at the wall, keeping time with his breathing.

“Are you awake?”

It was so soft and low that Greg wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard it. It wouldn’t have woken him if he’d been asleep. Greg didn’t answer. The flat of Mycroft’s palm settled cautiously between Greg’s shoulder blades. Resting there. It was so warm. Greg pressed his eyes shut.

“Then I shall find solace in the simple fact that you’re alive.” 

The tears that had been threatening finally broke free. He could feel them streaking down his face, pooling against his hair and pillow at his temple. In spite of it, somehow his breathing held steady, even, and hushed. And somehow, with the gentle pressure on his back, Greg eventually fell asleep again.

Sunday. He woke up and it was Sunday. Not terribly late, but definitely morning, and in an otherwise empty bed. He felt worse than hungover and older than his years. He groaned and scrubbed at his face, torn between the need for coffee and food, a hot shower, and a hard, long run. He knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t rationalize his way out of a run. So he hauled himself out of bed and got dressed.

“Myc?” The kitchen was silent; the coffee made but quite cool. Jetlag, he’d say. Up early because of time zones. Because of thinking. Greg passed by the entertainment room - also empty - then pulled up short in front of the office. The door was cracked open. Fucking office. On a Sunday. Sundays were not for work. “Myc?” He knocked. 

“Yes?”

Greg pushed the door open, not willing to go inside. “Hey, I’m going for a run. Do you…”

“Not today. I’m afraid I have-”

“Work?” Greg cut him off with a frown. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Gregory?”

Greg sighed. “I’ll make some brunch when I get back, if you’re not too busy to eat.”

Mycroft raised a brow, but remained silent at his desk.

“I’ll… Be back later.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything as Greg closed the door to the office. He didn’t say anything as Greg laced up his runners, or as Greg locked the front door - and checked it three times. He didn’t call or text as Greg took a long, ten mile jog. He stayed in the office when Greg got back, while he showered and dressed, while he cooked an over-eager brunch. And when Greg called him for food, Mycroft took a plate back into the office with little more than a murmured thank you.

Greg stared at his retreating back.

He stared at the empty door for an extra five minutes. Then gazed blankly around the kitchen. He hadn’t realised that the mug had left his hands until it hit the backsplash, shattering loudly. He didn’t realise that his breathing was wrong until his chest was tight and his head was swimming. He was suffocating. He was drowning in the middle of their damn kitchen. Air. He needed air. He was sliding his arms into his jacket and struggling with the lock on the door before Mycroft appeared.

“Gregory?”

“No.” He yanked the door open and stormed down the walk, cramming his hands in his pockets and heaving breath as if he’d just finished a sprint.

“Greg!”

He kept walking. When the light rain started to fall, he turned up his coat collar and kept walking. And when he was done walking, he dropped heavily onto the nearest bench and buried his face in his hands. He was fairly certain he was coming down from a panic attack, though having never had one before, he couldn’t be sure. He was also reasonably worried that the pain in his chest was actual heartbreak rather than anything physical.

He couldn’t go on like this. He loved Myc. He did. But God, admitting it was like flaying himself open. And Myc pulling away, shutting him out was salting the wounds. And whatever about what Greg was feeling, Myc was… Apparently waking up shouting? He’d had dark circles under his eyes this morning, and Greg was nearly certain he’d lost a bit of weight. They were a horrible mess. The pair of them. And they couldn’t go on like this.

He planted his elbows on his knees and wove his fingers into his hair only to find it damp. He was half soaked, which told him that he’d been out for longer than he thought. He needed to go home. He needed to talk to Myc. He needed Myc to talk to him. He needed to calm down. He needed to feel safe again. And he had no idea how to fix any of it, but they just… Had to.

An umbrella hovered over his head and he blinked at the pristine, high-heeled shoes. Oh. Her. He sighed. “Piss off, Anthea.”

She sat next to him on the bench and crossed her legs neatly. “I’d really rather not.”

He glared at her. “Shouldn’t you be off scaring the door-to-door salesmen and people that look sideways at the car?”

“Do you remember what you asked me to do?”

Greg sniffed. Of course he did. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of answering.

“Do you remember what I told you?”

He crossed his arms. “That you were good at your job, which I’m having trouble believing, seeing as you’re sitting here, and Myc is most definitely still at home.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “You weren’t with him in Japan.”

“Of course I wasn’t in Japan. I was here. Doing my…” His brain caught up with his mouth and he paused. “Why? What… What happened in Japan?”

“My job is to keep him safe.” 

“Then go… do that,” he waved a hand at her.

“I am.”

He huffed. “You’re bothering me, is what you’re doing. Just leave me alone, yeah?”

“Come back to the house and I will leave you alone.”

“Come back-” He shook his head at her. “You don’t get it. He doesn’t want me there. He doesn’t want me at all! Don’t you see how useless I am at all of this?”

Anthea finally turned to face him, a condescending look in her eye. “Up until this moment, I have never once thought you to be stupid.”

“Oi!”

“Greg. Get in the car.”

“I’m good here, ta.”

“Let me be very plain,” she said slowly. “He not only wants you at home, he needs you to be there. He needs you. You are not useless to him. And if the pair of you do not find a way to speak to each other, I will take matters into my own hands.”

He stared at her. “N-that doesn’t… He... “ Greg growled and fisted both hands in his hair. “He ignored me all day. He pretended like… Like it didn’t matter if I was there or not. Nothing I did…”

“Do you remember,” she cut across him. “Four years ago when you were knocked into the Thames?”

He snorted. “Yeah.” He definitely remembered that. Hard to forget the smell or the temperature of the Thames in March. He’d been kept overnight in the hospital. “How do you-”

“I’ve worked for Mr. Holmes for a number of years now. I’ve kept myself abreast of Sherlock’s comings and goings.”

“He’s half the reason I ended up in the river. And, it wasn’t really his fault, but you wouldn’t know it for the moment.”

“Remind me, what did Sherlock do when you found yourself in hospital?”

Greg relaxed the grip he had on his hair and gave her a long look. “He refused to come see me. Ignored my calls. Avoided me for a week. Then told me, to my face, that I was an idiot and he couldn’t be arsed to help my investigations because I was too dumb.” Oh… 

“Mr. Holmes has far better social manners than his younger brother, thank heavens. And my job is to keep him safe.” She stood with a patient sigh. “And I need you to get into the car, and come back to the house. Or I will make you get in the car.” She raised a brow. “Take from that what you will.”

Greg swallowed. Ok. Right. Ok… He pushed himself up from the bench. “How?”

She shifted her grip on the umbrella so he was safely below its protective shelter. “Talk to him. And please let him know that we are on our way back to the house. He’s not terribly patient these days. I wouldn’t want him doing something foolish.”

“In your experience,” Greg asked carefully. “How foolish is something foolish for Myc?”

Anthea grinned. “Impressively.”

Greg sent a text before they reached the car.

_Anthea and I are coming back to the house._   
_I need to speak with you.  
~G_

Mycroft was still ensconced in his office when they returned. Or was back in his office. Difficult to say. The broken mug had been tidied. Mycroft’s breakfast plate had been washed and dried. There was no other evidence of any change. Anthea had made herself immediately scarce, but Greg had no doubt she was within ear shot. 

He slipped off his shoes, glad to find his socks dry after the time in the rain, and hung up his jacket. Then he faced the open emptiness of his house. Greg worried his lip. He was going to have to go to him. He was going to have to meet Mycroft in his office. He would have to go back in that room.

Greg tried to muster some of the heat, some of that anger he’d felt in the park, but it was in short supply, half wasted on panic and having it out with Anthea. “He’s scared,” Greg murmured to himself. “He’s scared. He’s scared. He’s scared. And you’re bloody terrified.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Man up, Greg.”

_I need to speak with you._

He’d never invoked that phrase before. Mycroft had used it… Casually, accidentally, then with purpose. He’d have to know what Greg meant, right? Serious conversation time. State of the union. Battle stations? Mycroft might be on red alert. Fuck. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. That’s why he’s in the office. God, it’s not a work room, it’s a war room. But Greg didn’t have a choice now. He had to face it. Face him.

He could have knocked harder. Made it sound confident rather than hesitant. But he’d hedged, realising halfway into the motion that he looked a mess. He was damp and wrinkled and he’d been mussing his hair every time he’d raked fingers through it, and now it was a disheveled disaster. Stupid. Hopeless… 

“Come in.”

He took a fortifying breath and opened the door.

Mycroft was seated at his desk. Exactly where he’d been when Greg went for his run. Looking as immaculate and poised as ever. Stripped down to his shirt sleeves. And really far away. Distant in multiple ways. Greg furrowed his brow and stared at the floor. All hardwood. No rug. His stomach twisted as he recalled why, then was hit with the completely irrational urge to slide across it in his socks. Just _Risky Business_ himself over to the desk. Maybe a bit overdressed for it, seeing as he had on trousers. And with a bit of humor for courage, Greg actually stepped into the room. Then took another step. Pacing himself to make it close to the center of the space before he lost his nerve completely. “Myc.”

Mycroft’s face twitched and settled. “Gregory.”

“I… We…” Greg swallowed. How did you even start a conversation like this? Just fuck me up? I know you’re scared, but so am I? “Do you think we could talk?”

Mycroft’s brow lifted incrementally. “Is that not what we are doing?”

Right. So that’s how this was going to go. Greg wet his lips. “Yeah. Could we… Maybe go somewhere else? Like the couch or…”

“This is a perfectly serviceable room. There’s a chair if you’d like to sit.” Mycroft gestured, but Greg shook his head.

“Fine. Right.” So here. In this bloody office. Had been literally bloody just a week prior. He had uncomfortable flashbacks to primary school, getting scolded in the headmaster’s office. “Myc… I think…”

“There is a novel concept.”

Greg flinched. He’s scared. He’s scared. He’s being mean because he’s scared. “Please, just… Listen, yeah?”

He didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. And with a minuscule head tilt, Greg had been given permission to speak.

“Myc. I… I think I need… I want to talk about last week.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“We were good. Myc, you know we were. And then, with whatever, things got weird.”

“They ‘got weird’? Pray, how exactly do things ‘get weird’?”

“You left, alright!” Greg hissed. “You just up and ran for another continent.”

“I did not run,” Mycroft bristled.

“You didn’t have to go. That was an utter lie. And don’t bother denying it, I know when you’re lying.”

“Ah yes, one of your many useful talents.”

“Oi!” Greg sucked in a wounded breath. “I’m not useless!”

“They did ask me to attend to issues in Japan.”

“And you could have fobbed them off! But you’d rather get as far away from me as humanly possible!”

“Yes, well forgive me for not wanting to be the death of you!” he snapped.

Greg balked. “What?” That didn’t make sense. “You’re not-”

“You’re unhappy,” Mycroft cut him off.

It was a statement, not entirely unlike an accusation, and it made him flinch with the accuracy. “Not with you,” he whispered in a fragile attempt to stand the small amount of ground he’d gained.

Whether or not he heard it, Mycroft plowed on. “You’ve grown unsatisfied with our arrangement and you would like to leave.”

No, wait. That wasn’t right. Why would Mycroft think he wanted to leave? He felt his face heat with color, and he couldn’t quite parse the enormity of emotion behind it. “I… I don’t…” 

“We have planned for this. It was most likely inevitable. You are no prisoner here, Gregory. Should you wish to leave, you need only do so.”

“I don’t though.” He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave Mycroft. He didn’t want to leave their home. And it was _their home._

“You don’t what?”

He knew his face had gone red, his ears were burning, and he hated it. He might let himself be cross, get angry, fight for what he wanted. He might even grant himself the smallest amount of exasperation. But he couldn’t ignore it; it had been building for too long. “I don’t want to leave.”

“You cannot very well expect me to abandon my home office. That’s absurd.”

“Not this bloody room! You!” It exploded out of him, bubbling over with two years of things unsaid. “I don’t want to leave you, you massive twat!”

Mycroft blinked at him as Greg tucked his arms around himself, curling his shoulders as if expecting a blow. “I beg your pardon.”

“I…” He pressed his eyes shut, rallying, ordering his thoughts. “I don’t want less,” he admitted slowly. “I want more.”

Mycroft blinked again. “More?”

Now or never. He swallowed. “More, Myc. I want more of-of us. More of you. I just… I love-I want to-” He groaned and wrapped a fist in his hair. “Myc. Please. You have to understand. I want this-this to be… Real.”

Mycroft rose from his desk, smoothing his waistcoat before crossing to the other side and Greg took a reflexive step back, keeping at least an arm span between them. “Real?” He considered the word. “How is this not real?”

That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t what he’d meant. They were very real. Their relationship was very real. It was just that the… “Why do you only kiss me when I’m asleep?” There. He’d asked. It had been haunting him for months. Gentle, affectionate, soothing physical manifestations of caring only seemed to be granted when he was too asleep to remember. Left to question if he’d dreamed it up in the first place. The hand on his back last night...

“I…” Mycroft vacillated between an expression of confusion and caught out chagrin. “I never wished to make you uncomfortable.”

Greg let out a helpless laugh. “You didn’t! Christ, this is… I wake up some mornings and I… Why is this so hard?” We’re scared. We’re both scared.

“Perhaps, I might ask you to be precise, Gregory. Tell me, exactly, what it is you want.”

He worried his lower lip, nervously turning his wedding ring around his finger. It would either work, and Mycroft would understand. Or it would fail, and spectacularly annihilate what was left of their marriage. Now or never. Speak now or forever hold your peace.

It was two tentative steps to reach him. Oddly silent in his socked feet for how loudly his pulse seemed to hammer in his ears. To his credit, Mycroft didn’t retreat, only stiffened, pulling his spine perfectly straight, drawing up in a way that made Greg exquisitely aware of the extra three inches of height Mycroft had over him.

Two steps and one hand on Mycroft’s shoulder before a flicker of hesitation passed through Mycroft’s eyes. It was there and gone in a flash. And Greg knew Mycroft was as nervous as he was. Scared. They were both scared. He broke eye contact only for a moment. Only long enough to glance at Mycroft’s mouth, and just long enough to see the sharp, short inhale. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t.

Two steps, one hand, half a glance, and Greg stretched up onto his tip toes. It was hardly something he’d call a kiss. Halting, timid, and maybe restrained. Just a brush of his lips. A light caress. They’d been more risque at their wedding.

When Mycroft didn’t move, Greg felt the panic build. He’d kissed him. He’d… He’d gone and told him that he loved him and kissed him, and Mycroft wasn’t moving. Holy shit. What the fuck had he done? Half-imagined kisses and a handful of fanciful dreams had driven him to… To some level of insanity. He slowly let his feet fall back flat on the hardwood.

Mycroft blinked at him.

“T-that,” he felt his voice crack over the dryness of his throat. “That’s what I want.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed in a look of consternation. “You…”

He let his hand slip from Mycroft’s shoulder. You… Broke our contract, his brain supplied. Are too demanding, it offered simply. Have ruined us, it finished mercilessly. Are useless. Greg glanced down at his feet, toes curling against the polished wood. What had he done? He was suddenly exhausted. The prickle of tears burned at the corner of his eyes and retreat seemed the least humiliating option now. Maybe Mycroft would grant him that. A quick escape. A moment to pack a bag. God, where could he even go?

Even as his weight began to pull back, before he’d managed a step, Mycroft’s palm ran down his arm to close around his wrist. The gentle hold staying him. “Want me?”

Greg glanced up in surprise. Of all the things that might have followed, a question hadn’t even crossed his mind. And one filled with so much doubt and reluctance… He nodded.

“You want… Me?” Mycroft repeated hesitantly.

“Yes.”

“As in…” Mycroft shook his head as if to clear it. “How? Why?!”

“I-” Greg felt something of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Exasperation and hope bloomed heavily together in his chest. “What do you mean, ‘why’? I love you.”

Mycroft blinked again. “H-how?”

“Myc…”

“You never said.” Mycroft’s grip on his wrist tightened, pulling him closer. “You signed our contract. You agreed to all of it. And then never said…”

“I did though,” he offered in a whisper.

“In a fit of madness with a gun to your head! Gregory…” Mycroft’s face worked. “Why didn’t…”

“Neither did you.” It was a weak argument, as far as arguments went. He’d never thought a physical relationship was his to grant. Affectionate touches seemed focused on the platonic. A hand on his arm, on his shoulder. They cuddled only when necessary. He’d begged Mycroft to stay with him when he’d lost his mum. He couldn’t keep him in bed for a lie-in after a week of travel. He had to fall asleep on his desk to be woken gently. He had to coax Mycroft home with dinner and a clean house and conversation and it still never felt like enough. Hell, it took them both getting bashed in the head for Mycroft to fall asleep with him on the couch.

“Gregory.”

He stumbled forward as his arm was tugged, finding himself chest to chest with Mycroft and he gripped at his elbows to keep upright. It was closer than they’d been in what felt like ages. More physically sexual contact than he could remember since their first dance. Fingers ruffled through the hair at the nape of his neck and he helplessly tilted his head back into the touch.

“Do you mean that we could have…”

Those long fingers closed to tug lightly on his hair and he shuddered. That was unfair. So horribly unfair. “Yes.” 

Mycroft was staring at his mouth in fascination and heat curled up his spine. “For two years?”

Greg groaned and pushed up on his toes, catching Mycroft off balance in more ways than one. It was graceless at the start, little more than a mashing of lips as Mycroft faltered back against his desk. Greg didn’t care. He cupped Mycroft’s face between his palms and tilted his head. Mashing smoothed into a familiar rhythm as Mycroft settled, perching on the edge of the desk and pulling Greg into the space between his knees. The soft brush of Mycroft’s tongue against his own knocked the breath from his chest and he leaned into it, enjoying the warmth of Mycroft’s body folding around him.

He shuddered at the scrape of fabric through his tee-shirt, against his chest. How long had it been since he’d engaged in simple, intimate touch? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. This was Mycroft. He was kissing Mycroft. Mycroft was kissing him. And where it could have been panicked and rushed and desperate, it was quietly slow and deep. He sighed and lost himself in the wet, heated slide of Mycroft’s mouth, in the fingers weaving through his hair, in the low, contented rumble that reverberated in his chest as his breath started coming high and tight. He was dizzy with it.

Then Mycroft was pulling back. And Greg caught his lower lip in his teeth before he could escape, forcing Mycroft to feel the drag of every millimeter of space he put between them. Greg hummed faintly as Mycroft’s forehead rested against his. He forced himself to relax his hands where they’d fisted in the lapels of Mycroft’s waistcoat. “Good?” he managed to croak.

“Two years, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, letting his nose brush alongside Greg’s.

It was perfectly intimate. Gentle affection. And the soft scratch of stubble was making Mycroft shiver in a way that had Greg’s blood heating. Things he’d never imagined he’d have the opportunity for burst into his mind as he felt himself grow hard. He’d actually been thinking about it for ages, wanting to get his hands on Mycroft, unwrap him from the layers of clothes he’d watched him don in the mornings, touch everywhere. And now he just… could. “S’not my fault.” He managed to get a hand in Mycroft’s tie and started slipping it free. “I tried…”

Mycroft released an incredulous laugh as Greg managed to wrest the tie from Mycroft’s collar and let it drop from his fingers onto the desk. “I didn’t believe you.”

Greg rocked his head against Mycroft’s in denial. Didn’t really believe him. None of it had been unseen, just doubted. Second guessed. Rationalised away. “Twat,” he muttered, fingers working on the delicate buttons of the waistcoat. “And now?”

Mycroft tilted his chin, catching Greg’s lips with his own. And Greg opened his mouth to it, letting their tongues slide together. It was purposeful. Heated and possessive. Mycroft’s hand splayed across the nape of his neck, holding him close as if Greg would try to pull away. As if he’d been the one to pull back last time. Greg fumbled at Mycroft’s collar, managing another few buttons before the temptation of that exposed, elegant neck became too much. He nudged his nose along Mycroft’s jaw and under the bone to find soft, pale skin. Mycroft’s head tipped back, “Oh Lord.” 

He smiled into the flushing column of Mycroft’s neck, overwhelmingly thrilled at being allowed to, being trusted to, to show… Mycroft’s palms slid down his back and grabbed his arse with both hands, startling a high-pitched gasp out of him.

“I have been aching,” Mycroft whispered at the ceiling. “To do that.”

“Fuck,” Greg muffled a groan into Mycroft’s skin. “Why’d you wait so long.”

Mycroft squeezed again, dragging Greg forward into a rough frot. “Error in judgment,” he muttered, freeing one hand to cup Greg’s face in his palm. “Won’t happen again.” Then he was kissing him, sucking Greg’s tongue into his mouth.

Greg released a helpless moan and pushed into Mycroft’s space. He snuck a hand between them, fumbling with Mycroft’s belt, the click of the buckle and slide of the leather had Mycroft’s fingers digging into his back. Two years, he repeated to himself. Two years of pent up feelings, frustration and arousal. Two years of tiptoeing around each other. Wanting something more and never saying. Greg groaned with the overwhelming irritation of it all. And now that he had his hands on his husband’s skin, it was never going to stop. Error in judgment…

“Gregory!”

He smiled against Mycroft’s lips, secretly pleased that he could surprise him. Distract, perhaps. Redirect his attention so much that he didn’t notice until Greg had a hand down his pants. Based on the way Mycroft was clutching at his shoulders, it was a good surprise. And he was so hard in Greg’s hand. And trusting. It was intoxicating. Mycroft’s hand flew out behind him, bracing himself on the polished wood. With the size of the desk, he didn’t even come close to mussing the papers on the far side. It suddenly struck Greg as hilarious. “This desk,” he muttered with a snort, trying his best to suck a love bite into Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft caught his chin in one large palm, tilting his face up. “Fuck the desk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotional insecurity  
> Panic attack  
> Starting to earn that explicit tag


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any content warnings for the chapters will be in end notes of the chapter (if people are worried and would like to skip to those)

Until that point in his life, Greg couldn’t think of a single time that he had laughed with his whole body in the midst of giving a handjob. Particularly not while the other person’s tongue was in his mouth. But he couldn’t help it. He threw himself into it wholeheartedly. Mycroft’s grumble had flipped quickly into a moan, then soft, begging cries, and Greg swallowed each one down with a giddy joy that was nearly overwhelming. He tightened his fist, coaxing more, faster sounds from Myc, struck with absolute need to see him come. See him completely undone. Now. Right bloody fucking now. 

And Mycroft did. With a shout and a whole body shudder. Right into Greg’s fist and the rucked up ruins of his suit. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Greg closed his eyes and let his temple rest against the side of Mycroft’s head as he started to come down. He’d just made his husband of two years come in his pants. And it was fantastic. And ridiculous. The absurdity of it hit him all at once and he giggled.

Mycroft’s teeth closed over his collarbone in retribution. “I certainly hope you are not laughing at my expense.”

“Just not gonna fuck the desk.” He chuckled then sighed and kept his hold on Mycroft steady as the man cooled. He was a pleasant weight along Greg’s front, his head resting on his shoulder. The slow, even breaths against his neck made Greg shiver. It turned out, Mycroft was very, very tactile post-orgasm, and even that struck Greg as perfect. At some point, Mycroft had managed to slide his hands under Greg’s shirt, and now Greg was struggling to stay calm as long fingers were lightly stroking up and down the knuckles of his spine.

Mycroft hummed contentedly. “You may do that again, any time you please.”

Greg’s laugh turned breathless as Mycroft shifted, the top of his thigh brushing enticingly against him. “Noted.”

Mycroft lifted his head, blinking at Greg for a moment. The fog of bliss sharpening into understanding as he deliberately planted his foot on the floor and rocked his weight forward. “Oh. I see.”

Greg shuddered. “Oh?” God the friction was fantastic.

Mycroft caught his face between his palms and they were kissing again. And moving. Greg felt himself pitch backwards, stumbling to keep upright. He didn’t bother to wonder where they were headed. It didn’t matter. He trusted Mycroft. And his entire body was buzzing, hyper aware of every point of contact between them. God, Mycroft was very, very good at kissing; getting better by the second. Then his back hit the wall, holding him up as Mycroft’s hand planted on his sternum, its partner wrapping around his hip, pinning him in place while Mycroft held himself too far away for further contact. 

Greg let out desperate whine, trying to pull Mycroft to him, against him. That didn’t seem fair. He wanted... Mycroft nuzzled into his neck, seeking out every sensitive patch of skin he could find and Greg gasped with it.

“I would,” Mycroft’s teeth scraped across the muscle of his shoulder. “Very much like to no longer be upright for what I have in mind.”

It was too breathy to be a laugh. Too hushed to be a cry. Greg let whatever sounds that wanted to escape float into the space between them. “Doesn’t… Don’t care. Won’t last very long.” He was too keyed up. So hard. Two bloody years of pent up anticipation.

Mycroft drew back, the corner of his mouth twisted up with devilish intent. “Oh, you will.”

Greg had never seen that smile before. It was salacious and carnal, and he felt his eyes go wide as the heat of it curled low in his belly. “Myc…”

Mycroft was at his lips again, kissing, nipping. “Chair.”

Greg whimpered and shook his head. “Not here.” Not this room. Not anymore. Anywhere but this room. “Couch?” He lost his ability to speak as Mycroft’s tongue invaded his mouth. For a long, drawn out moment, Greg thought he’d come untouched, just from the fevered sensation of Mycroft’s lips on his. He moaned and dragged at Mycroft’s shoulders, trying in vain to pull him closer.

“Bed,” Mycroft said with finality.

Greg sagged. “Upstairs?” That seemed so very far away.

Mycroft hummed in agreement, but leaned back, giving him space to breathe. “That is, in fact, where our bed is.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.  _ Our bed.  _ A slow smile stretched across his face. Upstairs in their bed. Nothing else sounded better, nothing else would be better. Mycroft took Greg’s hand and peeled him off the wall, leading him out of the office, up the stairs, down the hallway, and into their bedroom.  _ Their bedroom. _

“Gregory?” Mycroft stroked his cheek. “Do us both a favor and get into the bed.”

Greg grinned, watching Mycroft struggle with his cuff-links and shirt. He felt drunk with his arousal, the warm and bubbly feeling in his chest, the way his heart heaved every time Myc looked at him. “This bed?”

Mycroft raised a brow. “That bed. Preferably sans clothing.”

“Sans clothing,” he echoed, his smile so wide that his cheeks burned with it. He locked eyes with Myc, deliberately releasing the button on his jeans, his fly, and shucking his trousers to the ground. Mycroft watched, heat and desire painted across his face. Greg grabbed the hem of his tee shirt and stripped it over his head. Before he had a chance to drop it, Mycroft pounced, driving him back against the bed frame then down onto the mattress. Greg threw his head back, laughing helplessly as Mycroft manhandled him across the sheets, and settled on top of him.

“You are…” Mycroft found both of Greg’s hands, interlaced their fingers, and held them down on either side of his head. “Infuriating.”

Greg grinned. “Am I?”

“I specifically said, without clothing.”

Greg had all of a moment to consider feeling sorry; he didn’t. He felt… Full to bursting. Relieved and thrilled. “I was trying?”

“You weren’t.”

Greg rolled his tongue over his lower lip, biting back a grin. “No, I wasn’t.” Mycroft attempted a stern look for as much time as it took Greg to wrap his legs around Mycroft’s hips and arch up against him. “C’mon, Myc.” He didn’t bother to try to free his hands, he didn’t actually care that much about getting off, he just wanted Mycroft to come down there and kiss him again.

“Incorrigible.”

Greg squeezed Myc’s fingers between his. “Myc.” He could see the heat and amusement flicker in Mycroft’s eyes, the curl at the corner of his mouth. “No longer upright?” He offered with a raised brow.

Mycroft groaned and dipped his head to kiss him, letting his weight rest on his hands. “Temptation incarnate.”

Greg tilted up his chin, meeting Mycroft in the middle. He hummed with delight as Mycroft’s teeth caught his lip, tugging on it. He felt hot and sensitive, small sparks of pleasure singing along his skin. “Myc…”

Mycroft shifted, his lips finding new bits of skin along his neck, his ears, his chest. He released Greg’s hands and stroked his palms down Greg’s flanks to his hips. “Such a shame these are in the way,” Mycroft dug his fingers under the waistband of Greg’s boxers. “Sans clothing?”

Greg squirmed. “Myc, please.”

“If you’re going to be polite…” He slid further down the bed, taking Greg’s pants with him. And he didn’t climb back up. 

Greg felt his breath catch as Mycroft gripped his hips, nuzzling into Greg’s belly. The direction Mycroft’s mouth took left no doubt in his mind where he was headed, and the easy arousal flared in his gut. “Oh God.” Mycroft dragged his cheek across Greg’s erection and blinked sweetly up at him. “Myc…” Then Mycroft licked primly at his cock. Greg slammed his head back on the bed with a gasp. “Fuck.”

Even the sensation of Mycroft’s hand gripping him was nearly too much. He dug his teeth into his lower lip and twisted the sheets in his grip. He wouldn’t last long. He wouldn’t last at all. Mycroft’s tongue laved up the underside of his cock and Greg choked out a cry. Then the warm, wet heat of Mycroft’s mouth closed over the head, and he was done for. 

Firm hands on his hips kept him from over excited thrusts and Greg started babbling. He knew he did. Nonsense poured out from his mouth, intermixed with pleas and cries and Mycroft’s name on repeat, slurred out in short form over and over. Mycroft’s low hums and the unpredictable rhythm, the gorgeous suction and sloppy friction wound him tighter and tighter. He was begging. Something had to break. He was close, so close. He was going to die like this.

In the end, it was something oddly simple and gentle that pushed him over the edge. Mycroft had pulled back to catch a quick breath, one hand smoothing over Greg’s belly, and he murmured his name. The moment Mycroft’s lips closed back around his cock, Greg was lost. He came with a shout, his body curling and trembling with the hot surge of pleasure.

Greg wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to catch his breath again. Mycroft nosed at his collarbone and Greg heaved a breath. “Christ.” He could feel Mycroft’s mouth curve into a smile against his skin and he realised he couldn’t quite feel his toes. “I was wrong…”

“Were you?”

“I think you might be the death of me.” 

“That would be counterproductive.” Mycroft’s hands continued a slow, sweeping motion down his chest; it was almost like petting. It felt… Good. Soothing. And Greg slowly relaxed his fingers from the knot of sheet he’d collected in his fists. 

When he finally managed to open his eyes, Mycroft blinked down at him with a fond expression. Greg grinned, contented, sated… Happy. “Better than the desk?”

Mycroft raised a brow, amusement curling at the corners of his lips. “Do not fuck the desk, Gregory.”

Greg burst out laughing, feeling light. Mycroft’s chuckle soon joined his. Greg closed his eyes, listening to the lovely sound of their combined mirth as Mycroft’s forehead dropped to rest against his shoulder. As the laughter petered out, Greg smiled again. “What about  _ on _ the desk?”

Mycroft huffed into Greg’s skin. “Terrible.”

Greg just shook his head and stretched with his whole body. He was going to be sore in the morning.

“I need to brush my teeth,” Mycroft whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Go to sleep.”

“Sleep?” Greg heaved a sigh and curled on his side. He was tired. A pleasant exhaustion. But he wasn’t asleep before Mycroft returned. And it was worth it for the look on his face and noise of surprise when Greg slid across the bed, curling an arm around his waist and resting his cheek on Mycroft’s chest.

“Comfortable?” He asked wryly, his arms encircling Greg’s shoulders.

It was a bone deep contentment. Heavy and happy and perfect. “Am now,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

He was still awake to notice when Mycroft clicked off the bedside lamp. He was mostly awake when the sheet was tugged up around his shoulders. He was almost awake when Mycroft’s fingers carded through his hair. He might have been asleep when Mycroft pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.

“I love you.”

Two days after Mycroft returned from Japan, Greg woke slowly and gently. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so soundly and comfortably, and while he tended to run warm, he was very warm. Cozy. Wrapped in blankets and arms. The whisper warm breeze of Mycroft’s breath puffed across the back of his neck, lifting the hair at his nape. A heated shiver ran down his spine and he muffled a sigh into his arm.

“You’re awake.”

The words were spoken directly into his skin and Greg groaned, shifting back into the welcoming body behind him. “‘M’not.” He wasn’t. Not really. He still felt that hazy edge of waking dream that lent itself to unfiltered revelry and unashamed pursuit of gratification. If he didn’t bother waking fully, there was nothing in the world that could convince his sleep addled brain that this wasn’t real. “Not up yet.”

Mycroft hummed against the side of his neck. “No?” The arm that had been casually draped across his waist tightened, holding them firmly together as Mycroft nosed along his nape. “Perhaps we should work on that.”

A swooping heat dropped in his gut and it felt like a free fall. He’d never thought Mycroft would tease. Lips, damp warmth, the scrape of teeth and Mycroft found a patch of skin just at the bend of his jaw that made him squirm. “Myc…” Fingertips stroked up the inside of his thigh and sent sparks up his spine, drawing out a soul-deep, guttural groan.

“Is that a good ‘Myc’ or a bad one?”

Greg tried to laugh. He tried, but it caught in his throat as Mycroft closed his mouth around his earlobe. “Fuck.” He sucked in a breath. “Good?” He stretched an arm back to grab at Mycroft’s hip. He needed to hold, he needed an anchor of some kind or he was going to roll over and frot into the sheets.

“I thought you said that you weren’t up yet.”

Greg shuddered as dexterous fingers stroked over his growing erection. “Myc…”

“May I?”

It was more of a grunt than he’d like, but it was all he thought he could manage. “Myc, please.”

He could feel Mycroft’s lips twitch into a smile as they moved down his neck. “Well you did say please.” 

Fingertips teased along the waistband of his boxers just long enough to have him squirm. Then by some clever flick of the wrist, Mycroft’s hand had slid into his pants and, dear God, Greg let out a tight sigh. He was so warm. Still sleep giddy and lax. And Mycroft was tugging him off with lazy, tormenting strokes, and most likely leaving an impressive love bite on the crest of his shoulder. He could die. Right now. Just expire in a pure contented haze.

Mycroft pressed his tongue to the fresh bruise and Greg hissed. “And to think, this is infinitely more satisfying than attempting to take care of oneself, alone in the shower.”

“Oh God,” Greg gasped, his skin heating with pleasurable embarrassment. “You knew.”

“Oh.” Mycroft’s hand paused and Greg’s hips stuttered with the sudden loss of rhythm. Mycroft slid his free arm under Greg, wrapping it across his shoulders and drawing him back, infinitely closer. “I was speaking of myself.”

“You?” Mycroft’s grip tightened again, a slow, firm stroke from root to tip. Greg couldn’t bite back the low contented moan. “Myc, please.”

“You as well then?” Mycroft’s palm splayed across his sternum, his hips rocking in time with the hand on Greg’s cock. “When?”

Greg shook his head, rutting back against Myc as his erection nestled in the cleft of his arse. Mycroft dragged his thumb across a nipple and Greg bit down on his lip.

Mycroft’s mouth whispered against the sensitive skin behind Greg’s ear. “The early morning alarms, was it? The ten minute long showers?”

At the scrape of teeth, Greg felt his entire spine twist. He sucked in a breath, his pulse pounding in his ears. It felt so good. Too good. Warm and hazy, the pleasure spooling out. “Fuck, Myc. Please.”

“What did you think about?” He licked the shell of Greg’s ear, and Greg shuddered. “As you took yourself in hand?”

He closed his eyes and tilted his head, giving Mycroft access to the whole length of his neck and gripped the forearm anchoring him in place. His head was full and empty all at once. Bleary and focused as the heat coiled tighter at the base of his spine. He let out a breathless whine as Mycroft seemed to pull away from his back. It was only far enough that as he twisted, Greg could reach his lips.

He managed to wind his fingers in Mycroft’s hair, letting the kiss turn wet and filthy as he held him close. They broke apart far enough to pant into each other’s mouths. “This,” Greg answered finally.

Mycroft groaned, his hips pushing firmly into Greg’s and Greg felt his entire body tighten in response. Where he’d been sleep warm, his muscles were now hot and lax. Where he’d been half dreaming, he was now fully awake and up for it. The slow laziness of the morning sex had crept into something explosive, barely contained, and Greg was suddenly aware that, with very little warning, he was about to have a blistering orgasm and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. And as the thought occurred to him, Mycroft’s hand moved just so and his teeth scraped just right and Greg was lost.

It took an unknown number of minutes before he managed to drag his brain back online. He was still heaving breath, but his muscles were loose and languid. And a warm weight draped across his back. He hummed contentedly, “You still alive?”

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, his exhale hot and humid against Greg’s skin. “Debatable.” His cheek rested somewhere near Greg’s spine, one palm soothed over his flank.

“Mmn.” He blinked at the early morning light streaming in through the curtains. “I have work.”

“You do.”

He was slowly becoming aware that he was sprawled across a very damp patch on the bed. He groaned, “Am I…”

Mycroft’s lips curved into a distinctive smile against his shoulder. “You are.”

Not only was he laying in his own spend, he had the unpleasant sensation of moisture trickling down the crack of his arse. “Did you…”

Mycroft chuckled. “I did.”

“I need a shower,” he complained without heat.

“At least,” Mycroft murmured, “it will take less time this morning.”

Greg groaned into the crook of his elbow, then started laughing. “I never should have told you.”

“You should tell me everything.”

A comfortable silence fell between them. “Myc?” Greg asked in the quiet hush of the bedroom.

Mycroft hummed, his fingers running feather light over Greg’s back.

“Can I take you out tonight?”

“Out?”

Greg twisted to peer up at Mycroft from over his shoulder. “Out. Like for some food.”

Mycroft lifted a brow in question. “What type of food?”

“Food food,” Greg grinned. “Pub food.”

“Have you ever seen me in a pub, Gregory?”

“No.” He hadn’t. And it didn’t change his need to see it one iota. And he was sure the smile on his face conveyed that message clearly. “First time for everything.”

Mycroft grumbled.

“It’s a gastro pub. You’ll love it.” Greg rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist and pulling him in close.

“Where is this ‘gastro pub’?”

Greg lifted his head, leaning in to kiss Mycroft affectionately. “It’s called Jae’s Lair. Specialises in barbeque.”

Mycroft gave a beleaguered sigh that Greg didn’t believe at all. “As you wish.”

Four days after Mycroft returned from Japan, Greg had an unreasonably calm day at work. He sent his team home early, and walked out at five on the nose. Then he arrived home to find Sherlock trying to break in. He sighed. “What on Earth are you doing?”

Sherlock flapped a hand at him without bothering to turn around. “Proving a point.”

Greg crossed his arms. “What point is that, exactly?”

“It’s about security,” Sherlock mumbled. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Greg tried to hide a smile. He tried and failed. “Mate…”

Sherlock finally stopped what he was doing and turned with a scowl.

Greg gestured at the camera. “Anthea knows you’re there. Myc probably does too. Hell, I’m sure it’s going to-” He pulled out his phone as it chimed. “Oh look. Notification.” Sure enough, he’d received a picture message and warning. “That means that-” He glanced up the walk and waved. “It’s grand, Steve. Just Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a rude sound.

“Security around here is fairly tight now.”

“I could have broken a window.”

Greg snorted. “Nah, you couldn’t. They’re actually blast proof.”

“The fire escape on the roof-”

“Is open out only. Try again.”

Sherlock covered the few steps between them rapidly and leaned down into Greg’s space. “Most assaults are committed by someone the victim knows.”

Greg tucked his tongue between his teeth. “Sherlock, just come in for dinner. I’ll make something nice.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You are hopeless.”

“It’s an upgrade from useless, so I’ll take it.”

Sherlock glared at him. “You are unusually glib today. Why are you so pleased? It’s not work. There’s nothing on. You haven’t had much to celebrate on that front for ages.”

“Oi!”

“Mycroft was out of the country, though he arrived back days ago. So it cannot be his absence - that tends to make me quite happy.”

“Sherlock, knock it off.”

“You’ve not been promoted, your family hasn’t improved in anyway, it’s not your birthday-”

“Christ. You’re uninvited for dinner.”

“Why?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’m just happy. Can’t a bloke be satisfied with life once in a while?”

“No.” Sherlock looked him up and down. “No, it’s never that. You… You’ve had sex.”

A laugh burst out of him. Sherlock was about to regret this, and it wasn’t as if it’d be Greg’s fault. “I have.”

“With whom?”

Greg bit back a smile.

“Lestrade.”

Greg raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“No.”

“Oh yeah.”

“No. Absolutely not. He doesn’t do… that.”

“He does. Really well.” Greg grinned. “Did you want details or…”

“Ugh! Gross.” Sherlock pushed past him and stormed down the walk. “I can’t look at you, you’re just covered in… Affection.”

“It’s called being happy,” Greg laughed.

“Stop being happy at me!” Sherlock snapped, letting the gate swing shut in his wake.

“So, that’s a no for dinner?” Greg called after him.

“No thank you!”

Six days after Mycroft returned from Japan, Greg arrived home later than planned and with half a mind to murder the idiot that’d died and made his day run long. He needed to pack. He needed to deal with the food that was in the fridge, and take out the trash, and print their tickets, and Christ, did Myc pack already? What if he needed to pack for them both? It was a stupidly early flight in the morning. He needed to set out coffee; he couldn’t do anything without a coffee. And unplug the electronics in case of a power surge. Oh God, the immersion… Did they have an immersion?

He pushed into the house and locked the door. “Myc?”

“In here.”

“Myc,” he shed his coat and followed the sound of Mycroft’s voice to the home office. Fucking office. “Myc do we have an immersion?”

“An immersion?” Mycroft turned, arms crossed, from where he stood in the middle of the room. “No. Why would we have an immersion?”

“I dunno. So I can turn it off.” Greg ran a hand through his hair and gestured. “Those things explode when people are on holiday.”

Mycroft’s face worked through a series of unusual expressions before settling into fondness. “The house will be looked after while we’re away. Please don’t waste another moment worrying about it.”

He sighed. “But I am. There’s… There’s stuff to do.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft chided softly.

“What… What are you doing in here?” he asked warily, catching up with Mycroft’s shirt sleeves, his lack of tie. He hated the room. If Myc would stop spending any amount of time in it...

“The rug was delivered today.”

Greg bit back a wince. “Oh?”

“Mmn.” Mycroft turned and scanned the room again, then backed slowly towards the door. Towards Greg.

Even when Mycroft reached his side, standing just past the threshold, Greg was still unsettled. “You didn’t want to put it down?”

“No,” Mycroft stepped behind him, wrapping an arm around Greg’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“Are they like mattresses?”

“Mattresses?”

“Do you have to flip ‘em? You know, rotate them every few months?”

Mycroft pressed his mouth to the side of Greg’s neck and chuckled. “No.” He kissed the skin beneath his lips. “They are not like mattresses.”

Greg felt his shoulders start to relax. “So… What are you doing?”

“Imagining the space.” His free arm slid across Greg’s shoulders, drawing Greg back against his chest. “I feel it is time for a change?”

“What kind of a change?”

“This room - for a start. Not tonight, but when we return, I believe it could use… Something.”

Greg nodded stiffly. “Something…”

“I was trying to picture how it would look with wingback chairs.”

“Oh?”

“And perhaps a sofa.”

“A sofa?”

“Mmn,” Mycroft sighed. “Matching desk chairs on either side of the partner desk, though maybe the desk belongs on the other side of the room; the wingbacks and sofa around the fireplace.”

Greg nodded again. It would be… better like that. More homey, not inviting necessarily, but warmer. “New rug?”

Mycroft smiled. “A new rug.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Mycroft’s arms tightened. “I would like to share the space with you.” He squeezed Greg’s shoulders reassuringly before he could object. “I think we would both benefit from reducing the amount of work conducted while home. And I wish for the entertainment room to remain a place of leisure. You needn’t work there if you don’t wish to. But this room, as it stands, is not conducive for… Use. For us.”

“And you want it… For us?” Greg tried to clarify.

“I believe that, not only would you be more productive, however comfortably seated on a couch, in front of a warm fire and not sky sports-”

“Oi,” Greg muttered. “I get by.”

“But also, I would be less likely to remain at my desk when suitable motivation is plainly apparent nearby.”

“Just to be clear, I’m the suitable motivation, am I?”

“I cannot see myself focusing on work were you to fall asleep on the sofa.”

“Oh.” Greg felt a slow heat creep into his face. He could see it. He was a mess for falling asleep with notes spread out everywhere. And he’d gotten into the terrible habit of working to the point of passing out on crime scene photos. It’d be like bringing barely controlled chaos into the room. But he could still see it. Mycroft at the desk, working less and less while he snored away on the couch. It was… Cozy. Almost comforting. “What about the desk?”

“It is a partner desk. There is space for two,” Mycroft offered.

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, an entirely different image forming in his head. “But is it a fucking desk?”

Mycroft released a startled huff of amusement. “Gregory Lestrade.”

“Mmn, thought so.”

“It can be sorted when we’re back from our holiday.”

Greg nodded and tried not to lean into Mycroft’s warmth as he untangled his arms. “Speaking of. I need to pack.”

“You need to eat dinner,” Mycroft gestured him towards the kitchen. “Your suitcase is packed.”

“Oh?” Greg started down the hallway. “But what if I don’t like the clothes you’ve packed for me?”

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft answered immediately, then seemed to consider. He was shaking his head by the time they reached the kitchen.

“What?” Greg propped himself against the counter, the easy humor bubbling between them again. “Don’t tell me, you forgot to pack my socks.”

“I would never forget.” Mycroft placed a hand on the counter on either side of him, loosely trapping him there. “It is only that this is our honeymoon. Perhaps you needn’t any clothes at all.”

Greg laughed. “You forgot my pants then?”

Mycroft simply kissed him until the laughter subsided. Until he wasn’t distracted by thoughts of packing. Until he wasn’t worried about the non-existent immersion. Until he was warm and pleased and aroused. And Greg melted into the affection. And let himself be happy.

Seven days after Mycroft returned from Japan, Greg left the house and locked the front door. Thirteen days after Mycroft had left for Japan, Greg sat in the back of a dark sedan and was driven to the airport. Two years after getting married to Mycroft Holmes, Greg boarded a plane, ready for a holiday. And he did all of these things with his fingers interlaced with Mycroft’s. Because they were finally taking their honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real CWs... just sexy times and sorting out their issues in a healthy way


End file.
